


where your song sounds

by batman



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, Weddings, i love that "music" is just a universe because that is actually the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 74,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batman/pseuds/batman
Summary: People travel the world looking for the friend, but that one is always at home.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 237
Kudos: 298
Collections: Haikyuu Fics That Light my soul on Fire





	1. january 4, 8:12 AM

**Author's Note:**

> SO i woke up one day in the last week of april like "yeah, i miss them". a week later on exactly the first of may, i started writing. now here we are.
> 
> **very, very, very important warning:** kuroo, one of my narrators, is a survivor of cardiac arrest - he was clinically dead, resuscitated, and now lives with an ICD. i have not gone into medical details per se, but this experience very clearly defines his journey here on out, and i talk about the aftermath of that traumatic event extensively. while his story will end on a stable and positive note, i have no way of guaranteeing that reading about it will not be anxiety-inducing or depressing if the theme upsets you. i completely understand if you want to pass on this one, but if you choose to read, i appreciate your trust in me. every aspect has been thoroughly researched, and i have direct and intimate reasons to take this subject seriously. you can count on me.
> 
> **additional general warnings:** regular drinking and smoking, and discussions of both habits.

Suga spins and throws his head back, smooth grey curls bouncing with life, catching the soft sunlight coming in through the kitchen blinds. He whips an arm in the air, tongue sticking out to catch the honey that trails downwards from the grooves of the wand he's holding. Swallows, laughs at himself, then spins again. The little speaker he has next to the stove is singing out something impossibly bright from twenty years ago, and he remembers all the words to it, is mouthing as he dances. Shakes his shoulders, shakes his head. His feet smooth on the floor now, the tied ends of his apron flying with the movement of his body, his smile so wide on his face it looks almost painful. Spinning golden strands of honey that shimmer in the morning air, fairy prince with fairy wand. Face turned towards the ceiling as he finally sings along, voice faint and only for himself, the enjoyment of it all only his. Youthful and charming and best friends with himself, a friendship second only to the one between him and the moment. Free as a kite, knees bending as he changes between poses, face mock-serious now as he stomps forward in time with the beat, then cracking into mirth again, eyes closed. No more honey left in the grooves.  


Tetsurou wants to melt into the doorframe he's leaning against. He feels so unbearably light that he has to dig his nails into his palms not to fly away. Suga has a way of doing that to people, turning bone to butterflies wherever he lands. Blissful surrender in every curl of his fingers, every gesture of his hands like he's trying to catch the wind, every fall of his feet like he's dancing flowers into blooming. More honey.  


Suga dances with himself and ignores the stack of pancakes he's supposed to be bringing out to everyone. They sit on the counter and steam away opaquely, and Suga dances, unaware, and Tetsurou is weightlessness made conscious.   


He turns away and breathes out, shakes his head. Steps away from the music, through the hallway and back into the world of humans. The same honey-sunlight is bathing the entire living room, and all those humans are glittering motes in the air. Michimiya and Azumane are setting the table, carefully lowering the pot of soup on a jute trivet, counting out pairs of chopsticks. The clock on the wall says it's barely eight in the morning, but they're all wide awake. Michimiya keeps inhaling loudly through her nose then sighing, and Azumane fumbles with the plates more than once.   


Koutarou is swinging his Wii controller around in front of the couch like an idiot, and while Tetsurou would take a moment to laugh at him were this any other morning, he's only grateful to Akaashi for keeping him distracted by kicking his ass, because otherwise he would give it away in a second. (They'd honest-to-God debated keeping him in the dark, but it would've been too cruel. To Koutarou's credit, he's giving all of his soul to the game, swatting at Tetsurou to get him out of the way, cursing as he drops a point.)

Tetsurou rolls his eyes and makes his way over to the balcony. The doors are open even though it's near-freezing outside, but Daichi is only in a sweater and his house slippers, elbows on the rail, back turned to the still-sleepy surfaces of Tokyo. Behind him a blue-pink sky, and the rising sun glimmering on a hundred windows. Beside him Shimizu, the cold breeze sending her long hair flying in strokes of black against the blue-pink sky. She looks awake, too. 

Daichi looks awake; he probably hasn't slept. He's staring right at Tetsurou, something unreadable on his face. Tetsurou thinks back to Suga dancing in the kitchen, so lost in the joy of the present that he has no idea or care for what the future holds. The flowers are blooming _now._ The honey is dripping _now._

Tetsurou smiles back at Daichi, steps outside barefoot, shivers.

'No day will be more perfect,' he says.

✶

'All right,' Suga says, claps his hands. 'First Saturday breakfast of the new year, let's eat well! Akaashi, I've put your soy cream next to the juice— Asahi, milder soup in the little— okay, you've got it. Let's eat!' 

Tetsurou purses his lips, licks them, anything to hide the smile. Clears his throat when Akaashi stomps on his foot under the table, and murmurs his thanks before reaching for the soup. To his right, Koutarou's having just as hard a time with no virtual tennis matches to distract him now, and has decided to hide his emotions by stuffing his mouth full to bursting with his first forkful of pancake. He nearly chokes, swallows his sweet-smelling coffee, clears his own throat. Tetsurou feels Akaashi stomp on his foot, too. 

The morning feels like butter. Bright yellow and light and so good it's almost bad for you. To his left at the head, Suga is drinking his horrid green smoothie merrily, engaged in discussion with Shimizu about something a student said last night, laugh like birdwings. All the way at the other end of the table, Daichi is pretending to tell Azumane and Michimiya what happened at his own workplace last night, but if Tetsurou ducked under the table right now on pretence of retrieving a spoon, he knows he'd see Daichi's fists clenching and unclenching on his knees, one leg bouncing up and down. He's lucky Suga isn't onto him yet; then again, maybe Tetsurou can only tell because he knows. 

He takes another swig of his juice, breathes in deep after it's gone down. The clock reads a little after eight, and they're all wide awake. 

'Koushi,' Daichi says then, a little too loud. Tetsurou and Koutarou have to stifle twin snorts. 'You know I hate to interrupt meals, but—' 

'Oh, no, that's fine,' Suga cuts in, raises an eyebrow gamely. 'Out with it already, you've been acting up all morning. What stupid travel idea have you and Bokuto come up with this time?' 

'Hey!' Koutarou says. Tetsurou and Akaashi both stomp on his left foot. 

'Am I wrong?' Suga laughs. 'Let's hear the pitch.' 

Tetsurou desperately wants to squeeze someone's hand, restrains himself. Squeezes his own knees so hard it hurts. Grits his teeth. Stares at his soup, trying to work up the steadiness to look at either one of them instead. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Daichi push his chair back, stand up, make his way around the table from behind Azumane, Akaashi and Shimizu. They all turn one by one to look at him too; Azumane's losing the poker face contest by far, with such competitors. 

Koutarou's squeezing Tetsurou's knee, too, now. One arm around the back of his chair. The morning is butter and Tetsurou is barely breathing.

'Actually,' Daichi says, and how is his voice so _steady_ , 'I came up with this one all by myself.' 

Suga takes a quick second to glance at the way everyone's staring at him, then turns back to Daichi, half-frowning, half-smiling. 'Yes?' 

Koutarou makes a small sound in the back of his throat. Tetsurou wonders if his machine is going to activate, neon red lamp ready to light up. 

Daichi goes down on one knee.

'Here's the pitch,' he says, but Suga’s already putting his hands to his mouth even as Daichi reaches into his pocket. The box is powder-blue velvet, and Tetsurou had half a hand in picking out the ring inside. It's going to look so good on Suga’s finger, he thinks, when the box opens. 

The box opens. Suga makes a half-gasp, half-cry of a sound, and Daichi laughs, puts a hand to his mouth too. 

'Well?' Suga says, voice full of light and tears. 'What _is_ the pitch?'

✶✶✶

The stone of the parapet is so cold against the back of Tobio's head that he can't feel it anymore. The sky's blue-black, no stars. On his right, three floors below, the road is as empty as it'll get, given that it's three in the morning. Still the occasional car, a little laughter from whoever's stupid enough to go clubbing on the Champs-Elysées. If he cared enough to straighten up, lean over and crane his neck, he'd just barely be able to see the golden-bokeh insides of Paris sliced open by the boulevard, the Arc tall and proud at the end. The Christmas decorations are still up, turning the entire place into a mess of coloured light like the whole world is a kaleidoscope.  


Tobio doesn't care, and he wishes he hadn't noticed the fucking parapet, because now he's freezing and he can't feel the back of his entire body, laid out as he is on the stone. One arm dangling over the edge, one foot pressed to the floor of the balcony. Only a bathrobe, though a thick one. 

'Kageyama Tobio doesn't know how to read score,’ Kei's voice crackles over the line in perfect English, and Tobio can _hear_ him smirking. 'Rather, score hasn't evolved enough to keep up with Kageyama Tobio.’

'That's a new one,' Tobio says. ‘I like it. Someone put her in touch with the douchebag who wrote my Berlin review.' 

'Berlin douchebag had it absolutely right. You're an unbearable terror. Now listen.' 

It's three in the morning, and the road is as empty as it'll get. On the other end Kei's probably on break, leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, laptop too close to the edge of the table and cigarette posed on the ashtray. Waiting for his coffee to reach a bearable temperature before swallowing it down in one go like a fucking animal. Tobio laughs to himself at the image, then clears his throat as Kei makes an annoyed sound, _listen to me._

'From the moment he steps out onto the stage and sits at the Shigeru Kawai, you know that this isn't going to be a night like any other. There is talent, there is skill, and then there is the cold cruel fact of undeniable genius. I don't think, after all these centuries, that I need to wax poetic about genius. Rather, let me wax poetic about Kageyama Tobio, which is the same thing.' 

Kei pauses, because he knows Tobio like the back of his hand, and he's right. The moment he stops Tobio bursts into laughter, louder than he meant for it to come out, and claps a hand over his mouth. A weird echo of his laugh stays frozen in the winter air for a second before falling away to the street under the hotel, and he clears his throat, all serious again. Kei's still laughing on the other end.

'Is she...' Tobio motions. 'You know?' 

'Oh, I know,' Kei says. 'Yeah, she is. Anyway — ' 

The journalist is actually genuine, which, when Tobio already doesn't care either way, it's a bonus. In the first place, they didn't set up this article-reading tradition for Tobio to feel _good_ about himself, it was more so that Kei could hold a one-sided debate with journalist of the month about how fucking wrong they were about whatever compliment they'd given Tobio. Just a month ago he'd barked up a storm because someone called Tobio "as regal in person as he is on the piano", because _clearly they haven't seen you after your fourth shot of vodka in as many minutes, and quite frankly I'm sick of the whole world taking you for some sort of angel descended just to play weird hipster piano for the rest of us mortals, and_ —

Tobio is seriously freezing, and his brain can't completely process what Kei's saying, only his voice and with it the reminder that Tobio really fucking misses him. Tobio really fucking misses everyone all the time, it's kind of an occupational hazard for at least three months a year, but right now, he really fucking misses them. Spent new year’s eve with complete strangers in some bar on a boat. He misses Kei's stupid bitter coffee and that mysterious dipping sauce Yachi makes with her fried chicken and Yamaguchi’s completely shit taste in music. Hell, he even misses Oikawa-san _._

Kei is saying something about Tobio's unique composition style as Tobio unsticks himself from the parapet and sits up, clutching the edge when it makes him dizzy. Right foot's fallen asleep, fuck; down he goes, sitting heavily and leaning back against the stone carvings that make up the barrier of the balcony. From here his room looks so warm and cosy he could cry, but if he goes inside he'll fall right into bed and knock out before he can say good day to Kei, so he waits out in the cold, twists his foot at the ankle to get some feeling back. Pure sensation rises up like fire ants crawling in his muscles; he grits his teeth and keeps moving through it as the blood flows in. 

'Oh,' Kei says, and it's not every day that he's caught off-guard. Tobio wishes he'd paid attention to the rest of the article, but it's too late. He'll read it in the morning. 

'What?' he says. God damn it, his _foot._

'I will end by saying that Kageyama Tobio is a pianist,' Kei reads out, voice a little quieter now. 'This I know. That a piano is traditionally played with one pair of hands, I also know. I have seen more than my fair share of performances over this past decade, from the masters to the completely unknown, from Hollywood to the Tchaikovsky conservatory, and every time, what I have seen is a piano and a player. This I know. This is not news to me.

'But tonight,' he continues, 'at the first performance of the new year, I saw an instrument, and then another one.’

Tobio stares at the floor. 

'And as I went home in the wet Parisian winter and unwrapped my scarf, I couldn’t help but think to myself, _what a lonesome thing to be._ '

✶✶✶

There _is_ a travel plan, because after thirteen years of being with someone you kind of develop an idea of where they'd want to get married. And as it is, it was thirteen years ago, when both of them were still wiry-limbed and didn't know what to do with their hair, that Daichi and Suga had decided that they were in this for the long haul, whatever the fuck _the long haul_ means when you're all of sixteen years old.   


They'd happened to make this monumental decision in the middle of nowhere, nestled in the green hills of Fukushima, on a stupid high school trip to reconnect with nature, or some bullshit like that. Tetsurou only wants to know if there'll still be mosquitoes in October; ten months of warning is just barely cutting it.   


'No mosquitoes,' Daichi sighs, cheeks still red, one hand clutching Suga’s as if it's the first ever time. ' _And_ they have two amazing hot springs.' 

‘Hot springs are completely useless to me, thanks,' Tetsurou says, putting his phone away once the _good morning_ to his father sends. Daichi rolls his eyes but lifts a hand in apology. 'And your folks still don't want to come?' 

'Spoke to all four last week, they prefer the civil ceremony down here,' he replies. 'To be fair, can you imagine how bored they'd be with all of us?'   


' _Bored_ isn't how I'd put it,' Shimizu says dryly. 'I think it'd break your mother's heart to see how quick you can down a pint.'   


'Oh, you're a smartass. Also, you haven't seen my _dad_ down a pint.'   


It's funny. Daichi is twenty-nine this year and _head_ of security (who let him), but to Tetsurou he's always going to be twenty-one like he was when they first met, barely out of their undergraduate programs and already launching into one of the most ambitious master's of the country. Back then Daichi's hair was longer, his choice in shirts horrid, and his attendance stellar, all of which often makes Tetsurou wonder if it wasn't fate that out of the two of them, it was Daichi who managed to actually do something worthwhile with his degree. Not that it would've changed anything if Tetsurou wore uglier shirts or came to class more often, he supposes. Not that anything would've changed anything, probably.

Suga is twenty-nine this year too, and he actually doesn't look a day above twenty-one, so Tetsurou doesn't have to do any mental gymnastics. Glowing skin and glowing smile, hair still unfairly beautiful after all these years of dyeing it, and not a class passes out from under him that doesn't weep on graduation day. Tetsurou'd never heard of high-schoolers crying on graduation day until Koushi landed his job; it's ridiculous. They're both ridiculous, and now they're getting married, and it's ridiculous that they took so long. 

'Tetsu's tearing up,' Koutarou announces, pointing from where he's sprawled on the armchair. 'You can't see it but he's totally tearing up on the inside.'   


'How does one tear up on the inside,' Tetsurou says, but he has to clear his throat right after. 'Do not look at me. I do not have emotions.'   


'That's my line,' Akaashi says. 'You're definitely tearing up, Kuroo-san.' 

' _I'm_ tearing up,' Michimiya declares, and to no one's surprise, she actually is. Nose bright red and eyes wet, nothing on her face but happiness. 'But only because I can't wait to cannonball into Mishima's hot springs.' 

'You can't cannonball into springs.' 

'Oh yeah? Try me, Daichi.' 

Kenma still hasn't replied to his message, which is how Tetsurou knows that he hasn't looked away from his spreadsheets a single time all night. If he was asleep he would've texted _fuck off,_ but he clearly has no idea where his phone is right now, which means Tetsurou will have to take a detour to his place and yank him away from his computer, make fish and rice, and then monopolise his flatscreen to play _Red Dead Redemption._ On the first weekend of the year too. Life is so hard, incessantly. 

'Right,' Suga says on cue, bringing a hand down on his thigh. 'Invitations. Bookings. Dates. Daichi, I can't believe you didn't warn me, now I have to get planning out of nowhere.' 

'Babe, your mom told me she'd give me your hand herself if I didn't ask for it already.' 

'Be that as it may. I — oh!' His eyes light up, and he looks at Daichi with pure joy for a split second, before looking around at them all. 'Oh, you guys, _invitations._ ' 

'Why do you look like that?' 

'Because,' he says, 'you're finally going to meet the greatest, and _worst_ , musicians in this country.'

✶✶✶

Suga-san is getting _married._

Tobio's still sitting on the edge of the bathtub, towel wrapped around his waist, phone held at a stupidly high angle so that his hair won't drip on it, and he's spent the past five minutes _gaping_ at the message on his screen. No matter how hard he squints the innocent grey speech bubble doesn't disappear, and nor do its contents. 

_Happy new year, it's been months!_

_Call me when you can. Your Daichi-san proposed._

It's ridiculous that they took so long, but Tobio isn't any less stunned. Even though it was almost six months ago for Suga-san's birthday, he still remembers last eating with them like it was yesterday. Yamaguchi had choked on a bite and nearly killed himself, and the restaurant was warm and stuffy and smelled so delicious it was making Tobio dizzy. He remembers what Yachi was wearing, something light and flowery, hair loose over her shoulders, face red from the heat of the grill. Yeah. Daichi-san and Suga-san had looked every bit as happy that night as they have since Tobio first met them in high school, and in a way, he thinks he's so surprised at the announcement because it's funny that they're finally thinking of giving it an official ring, as if it's necessary. 

Still— he gets it. Knows what it's like to have something with someone that you want to yell to the whole world about. Even if neither Daichi-san nor Suga-san is the yelling type. Well, Daichi-san, maybe. He hasn't forgotten enough of high school for _that._

Right. They're getting married, and Tobio's dripping onto the mat, and he needs to get dry and dressed and call back. Springs up and puts the phone away on the counter, stares at himself in the still-steamy mirror. 

Then Tobio tries a smile, because he's happy. Then a grin, because he's happy. Then a laugh, because he _is_ happy. Then takes a deep breath, and starts his day. 


	2. lamps

'Don't get it twisted,' Daichi is saying when Tetsurou finally reaches the table, trying his best not to let any of the drinks spill, wincing when Nishinoya's Moscow mule mug tips over dangerously. 'I'm the one he's marrying but Kiyoko’s the one he can't live without. I think I just lucked out because I'm ripped.' 

'You're not even ripped,' Shimizu supplies, sipping daintily at her terrifying-looking glass. Tetsurou takes his place beside her once he's handed the drinks out, rolls his sleeves back down, nods solemnly at the burn she just delivered. 'And anyway, if you were a little more organised, it would've been a closer fight.' 

'I work at _Toyota,_ ' Daichi says, which is his favourite thing to say. Tanaka, ever Shimizu's bodyguard, retorts with something more informed by the alcohol content in his blood than by his intellect, and the table explodes again into debate, interrupted only by newcomers coming to give congratulations.

It's only nine in the evening, winter still lunging into February from the frozen ends of January. They had to wait weeks to get everyone into Tokyo, but it was worth it; they managed to reserve one of their favourite restaurants, wide windows and an intimate look into the technicolour business of Roppongi, and all of their favourite people are in the same room now. Suga hasn't sat still since the beginning of the party, flitting from here to there and hugging people left and right, and while Daichi tried to keep up first, he's long since abandoned Suga’s unpredictable trail and settled at the table to eat more shrimp than anyone legally should. 

The room is large, music and laughter inseparable from each other, orange and golden lights, not even the serving staff immune to Suga’s contagious felicity; Tetsurou sees more than one of them smile and whisper to their colleague, pointing. Laughs outright as Suga catches one in the act and marches right up to her, demanding that she dance too. (And Suga doesn't drink; Tetsurou can only imagine what life would be like if he did.) 

'Look at him go,' Azumane sighs as Suga spins the waitress around to some breathy melodic number, even as she stammers in protest and blushes up to her ears. ‘Noya, are you filming?' 

'Am I ever.' 

Tetsurou shakes his head and lifts his glass, relaxing at the blissful taste of blueberry, and checks his phone. Yaku and Kenma should be arriving any minute now, and Ushijima’s supposed to be coming in right from the station, with some dangerous-sounding date in tow. Being transport manager is hard. Life is hard—

'The kids are here,' Suga says brightly. 'Everyone say hi!' 

Their table is suddenly assaulted by two extremely tall gentlemen and one lady whose stilettos make up half her height, and Tetsurou straightens up, always interested in new faces. Not that he hasn't seen Kageyama's in a dozen different places already, and anyway, it's easy to tell which one he is given how Suga’s hanging off his shoulder, beaming and proud. _Here's my baby,_ he's practically screaming. 

Kageyama, then, is tall and silky-haired and awfully quiet, given the way he just barely mutters his greetings, bowing to every single one of them. He's flanked to the left by who Tetsurou learns is Yachi, the only hair in the room as flawless as Shimizu's, pink dress, pearls, lovely smile, high voice. Her boyfriend's so much taller than her that it's adorable; all freckles and dark curls swept back and tied up; he presents himself with a bouncy little bow, _Yamaguchi._

'Where's Tsukishima?' Daichi asks, and Yamaguchi says something about parking. Tetsurou turns back to the food and makes an angry squawk as he realises that in the five seconds for which Koutarou stopped at the table mid-dance, he took the care to swipe the last of the canapés from under Tetsurou's nose. 

Life is hard. Life is certainly hard.

✶✶✶

‘He’s totally staring.’

Kei’s ears are so red Tobio thinks it’s a wonder he hasn’t exploded. ‘He’s not staring. _You’re_ staring at him and it’s making him stare.’

‘Yamaguchi does have a scary stare,’ Tobio offers, using up the one moment of solidarity he allows Kei every month. ‘But he isn’t staring at Yamaguchi, you know. He’s staring at _you._ ’

Kei looks murderous. It’s the best thing to have happened to Tobio this evening apart from this perfectly mixed melon whatever that’s in his glass, which is already hitting the back of his throat only halfway through. Ten in the evening is too early to get tipsy by what Kei calls Tobio’s _annoyingly cosmopolitan_ standards, but well, it’s a special occasion, this tastes even better than the lychee martini he had just before it, and there’s some stupidly hot guy who’s been staring at Kei from across the room for at least five minutes now. Well, staring isn’t exactly right, but he’s been throwing glances every ten seconds, which is the same thing. It’s even better, because now Kei can’t write it off as an unconscious action.

Sure enough, despite himself Kei finally looks up, and the man ducks his own head so fast he gives himself away in two seconds flat. Yachi giggles then chokes on her drink, keeps laughing as Yamaguchi rubs her back.

‘He’s attractive,’ she supplies.

‘Attractive?’ Tobio throws back the last of his drink and scoffs. ‘Yeah, he’s attractive. Your ass better go over right now.’

‘I’m not going over.’

‘You have to go over. You owe it to the community.’

The man in question is Daichi-san’s best man, which is something Tobio learned from Suga-san, who insisted on introducing him to every single person at the table even though he knows Tobio can’t learn more than one name a day. Sure enough he has no idea what the guy is called,but he _is_ the best man. Kei _would_ accidentally seduce the best man like some long-legged freak come straight out of a romcom. Tobio’s fucking disgusted.

But before he can tell Kei just how disgusted he is, Suga-san bounds into their corner again, making their entire vision go bright with the light blue of his blazer, the little pink blossoms embroidered on it catching the overhead lights. He looks like magic, which isn’t new, but it’s always gotten to Tobio even after a whole decade of knowing him. Fondness makes his chest go tight; more when Suga-san takes his hand.

‘My favourite junior owes me a dance,’ he says, tugging even as Tobio protests. ‘No excuses now, come on. It’s my engagement.’

And he’s right. When Tobio called him last month, the first thing he’d said was _you’ll play at the ceremony, right,_ like it was more a fact than a question, and of course Tobio would. Of course he will, even though he knows who else will be at the ceremony. It’s Suga-san’s wedding and everything has to be perfect, and if that means Tobio has to dance right now, he’ll do it.

‘Favourite junior,’ Kei says, mock-pained. ‘Good to see how much you care about the rest of us, Sugawara-san.’

‘If I were you, Tsukki,’ Suga-san calls back over his shoulder, ‘I would go to the bar right about now and order a drink. Don’t make him stare at you all night, now.’

Tobio turns to brandish a triumphant middle-finger to Kei, cackling as he gets one back.

✶✶✶

Kuroo Tetsurou is going to kill Sugawara-soon-to-be-Sawamura Koushi. He decides this the moment the hot blond leans over the counter less than a metre away from him, waiting for the bartender to return from whatever depths of hell he’s gone to for Tetsurou’s drink. In the first place, a simple coconut water— 

He’s not really blond, Tetsurou realises. His hair is just such a light shade of brown that it looks it, the curls almost translucent over his temples, forehead, the nape of his neck. Long and silky-gorgeous. Under the dark gold lights of the bar he looks like a creature from another space, and up this close, Tetsurou can see the disconcerting amber of his eyes behind his glasses, as he turns to throw the world’s quickest look to him. Tetsurou swallows, lowers his gaze to the fridges behind the counter instead. Yes, he’s going to kill Suga, because he doesn’t have to wrack his brain to know who’s behind this. As it is he doesn’t have to play along, has been suavely and successfully sidestepping all his friends’ matchmaking attempts for nearly five years now, and he isn’t planning on changing that anytime soon.

Even so, when the bartender finally turns up with his coconut water, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed; he’s just too far to properly catch the guy’s voice over the music as he orders, and he’d have loved to know what it’s like. Just out of curiosity. Tetsurou can be curious, no doctor disallowed that. In that same spirit, surely no one back at the head table is going to mind if he just sips away at his glass here. Loner at the bar, right? Not looking for anything, just _looking._

But he isn’t the only one doing the looking. Even as he glares at the silver surface of the fridges, he can sense those eyes on him, even if it’s only for seconds at a time. And every time, when he looks up, they’re gone. He’s motionless in a way that suggests that he’s at ease with his body, no fidgeting, no wasted movement. Lithe and glowing under the lights, oh so quiet, and entirely the most interesting thing Tetsurou’s seen all night. He’s gorgeous; Tetsurou’s just looking. Fingers drumming on the wood of the counter, one foot tapping against the floor to the beat of the music. 

This time when he looks up, they match. One clean note of a moment where their eyes meet, both taken aback as if it wasn’t by design. Maybe it wasn’t by design, but Tetsurou can feel his lips curling in an automatic smile, and has to clench a fist at the barely-there one he gets in return before they break it off again. His glass is sweating all over the counter now, so he takes a swig, sets it in a dry spot. He should really go sit. 

He should really go sit. 

This time, they hold the gaze for longer. No smiles, just eyes. Something unnecessarily soft playing in the background, Tetsurou’s fingers cold from his glass, and this, whatever it is. Just looking. He doesn’t— hasn’t felt it for years now, has nearly forgotten the words to describe it. He _has_ forgotten them, along with his ability to retain details in the things he reads and what life was like before twenty-five. He’s forgotten the words, but not the feeling, and he should really go sit. 

But then the bartender arrives with something dark and opaque-looking in a martini glass, and the blond is taking it, and disappointment sweeps in all childish and sudden. Well, it’s over, he might as well _really_ go sit now— 

The metre turns into half a metre, and then a quarter. The smell of kahlúa and something smokier, and those eyes are so much worse up close. 

It’s Tetsurou’s opening; the blond is looking at him expectantly, an eyebrow raised. _Don’t make me regret this._

‘Oh, God,’ Tetsurou says, makes a pitiful face. ‘I don’t know. Come here often?’ 

That does it; a snort, a sneer, and then a shake of his head. ‘ _Please_ do better.’ 

‘Here I go again: are you one of Suga’s little dance students?’ 

‘Hardly. High school junior. Last chance.’ 

‘I’ve got it, I promise,’ Tetsurou laughs. Straightens up, pretends to be in deep thought. ‘What _do_ you do?’ 

The blond considers, then raises his glass to his lips, salutes Tetsurou with it before taking a drink. Takes his sweet time with it while Tetsurou waits. Wipes a thumb over his mouth, clears his throat, then raises his eyebrows. 

‘Guess,’ he says, and Tetsurou groans theatrically. He really should’ve gone and sat.

✶✶✶

'Mishima,' Tobio repeats, and it's the most obvious thing in the world. He barely remembers that trip, having spent most of it playing card games and getting his ass handed to him in each one by Kei, and it's only years later that he found out that while he was busy tripping over branches and complaining about the humidity, Daichi-san and Suga-san were getting together. It feels a little like he slept through a meteor shower, but he doesn't mind. They've always been like that anyway, the two of them; so obvious in everything that the rest of the world doesn't get to see the real bits anyway. Not quite.  


'Mishima,' Suga-san says, smile all soft. The song changes to something much slower; this, Tobio can deal with. Syncs his feet up with Suga-san's trained ones and even manages to twirl him around right in the beginning. Catches the light in his eyes and squints. 'I don't know how we're supposed to get your piano up there, though. Maybe we can't have a live performance after all.' 

'I'm not such a divo yet, Suga-san,' Tobio says, voice sulky despite himself. 'As long as they have any sort of piano up there it'll do. I won't let you play a _recorded_ composition, that's just pathetic.' 

'I'm going to make some calls, though the chances look slim. Maybe they'll have one of those little Casio keyboards, you know, the ones for kids—' 

'Okay, now that's not going to work.' But Tobio's already cracking up at the image of himself playing one of those things, holding it to his chest like an accordion. It's probably the size of one of his palms. 'Maybe at the afterparty.' 

He'd met Suga-san when he was fifteen, at the same time he'd met almost everyone he holds dear today. Karumai was too small to have a vocational school; they had to make do with a ragtag music club that had no hierarchy or organisation, just a bunch of kids all in love with something or the other that made sound, if even that. Like Kei who didn't want anything to do with the club activities, but still sat in on every dance practice of Suga-san's right from the start. So did Tobio, until one day the piano teacher was on sick leave and Suga-san turned to him, went _well, you play, right?_

From that afternoon and until the day he graduated, Tobio played the piano for the dancers every Thursday, dusty sunlight on the bare floor and the squeak of new shoes. Back then he had long baby hair and didn't know how to talk to people, but then again, that hasn't changed a whole lot. But he does know how to talk to Suga-san— rather, Suga-san knows how to talk to him. Knew from the first day— was one of the only people who didn't blink when Tobio took a look at the sheets and said _I can't read those but if you show me what it sounds like, I can play it,_ just took it in his stride and pulled out a laptop to show him. Wasn't overly fascinated with how Tobio could wrap his fingers and ears around chords and harmonies without reading, either; just accepted it as something that made his music beautiful, not something that his music was beautiful in spite of. 

Tobio's gone three months a year, playing for strangers in all sorts of places from century-old theatres to seatless concert halls. Amazes and angers critics in a half-and-half ratio. Doesn't mind signing autographs but hates talking to fans because he's convinced the moment he opens his mouth they'll be able to tell that he's more seventeen than twenty-seven. Wishes, sometimes, that he'd developed some kind of stage persona where he could wear a sharp white mask and refuse to give anyone his name. 

But every time it gets ugly and messy and hard, it's the memories of high school, of that first pure _joy_ he'd felt in performing rather than the instinctive pull and love of it that he'd had since he was born— it's those memories, of playing only to play, that keep him composing, recording, thinking. People are like that, he thinks. Matryoshka dolls of memories, each person carrying a whole bunch of younger versions of themselves inside. Somewhere inside he's still fifteen years old and enamoured with his cheerful senior who danced like a charm. Still seventeen and holding the letter that told him he'd been accepted to the conservatory of his dreams. Still twenty and forever in a love like a riptide. 

Like a riptide. 

'Those two are certainly enjoying themselves,' Suga-san says, nodding to the right. Tobio looks over, then snorts loudly. The best man and Kei are talking up such a storm that it can be seen all the way from here, even though Kei's almost a ventriloquist in how he doesn't fucking move when he talks. They must be having a fuck of a discussion if he's all animated lines like this, gesturing, frowning, sleeves rolled up, martini already gone. The best man's settled on one of the barstools, back to them, but his posture suggests he's listening with all his might. 'I didn't expect Tsukki to actually go get a drink, but I must say I'm not against this turn of events at all.' 

'I just hope he doesn't chew the other guy out over late-stage capitalism or something stupid like that.’  


'Oh, if someone can hold his own in a discussion about late-stage capitalism, it's Kuroo.' Suga-san laughs, draws back, steps forward again, perks up as the song changes. 'Oh, it's Noya's favourite song!' He looks pleadingly up at Tobio as if he needs to _ask._ Tobio laughs and lets go of his hands, waves him off to the head table. 

Suga-san bounces away like a child, and at the table Noya-san is already jumping up with a hoot. Tobio shakes his head and makes his way back to Yamaguchi and Yachi. It's going to be a long evening, in the best of ways.

✶✶✶

' _Computational musicology?_ ' Tetsurou repeats. 'Man, is there something in the water of Karumai? Why are all of you like this?'  


Tsukishima huffs a laugh, lifts his glass again. 'Sawamura-san turned out just fine, to be fair. He always said God didn't give him a single musical bone so that he could keep the rest of us in check.'  


'And the couple back there with the lovely lady? Don't tell me she's an opera singer or something, I'll drop this drink and go right home.'  


'Yamaguchi used to play a little bit of bass back then but now he's in junior management at a record label, and Yachi's designed every single one of Kageyama's album covers so far.'  


'Amazing.' Tetsurou turns to lean his back against the counter, elbows taking his weight. 'I'm afraid I have nothing half as illustrious to offer, so let's pretend I'm a spy fronting as a bar owner.'  


'A bar owner?' Tsukishima raises his eyebrows. 'Pardon me, but you seem a little...young, for that?'  


Tetsurou raises his own eyebrows, nods; he's used to that question, and always has the perfect answer ready. Memorised it in front of the mirror to pull it off the day he and Koutarou signed the contract.  


'I used to be an investment analyst at a Fortune Global 500,' he says, shrugs, _what can you do._ 'Then I died, and was reborn as a bar owner.'  


Tsukishima blinks, then snorts. 'Let me guess, in the midst of a stressful big-city existence filled with glitz and emptiness, you had a deep awakening about what really matters in life, and discovered that money wasn't on the list?'  


'Not quite. More like the idea of being in debt no longer really terrified me because I'd just died, you know? So I was like, fuck it. Let's buy a bar. What's the worst that could happen? I'll die again?' 

'Your choice of metaphor is very interesting, but I'll let it slide.' Tsukishima pushes his glass to the side, nods at the bartender when offered a refill. Actually, he's so different from what Tetsurou expected him to be like that he doesn't know what he was expecting after all. Sure, he's calm, poised, sounds like words arrange themselves quickly in his brain, which is all Tetsurou could ask for from a conversational partner. But he's also doing a doctorate in _computational musicology,_ and sounds neither proud nor defensive about it the way most researchers do when it comes to explaining why they've chosen to spend their twenties sitting behind a desk and working on a document that'll only see the light of the day five years from the day they started it. It seems, rather, that he's never given it much thought.  


It reminds Tetsurou of Suga, actually, who once said that dance was the only thing he was going to do with his life, and that he'd be doing it even if he was an accountant in Mexico.  


'Tell me more about your research,' he says, turning to face Tsukishima fully. Ah, there it is; even on the calmest of faces there's always a moment where an expression of brief pleasure makes itself known. Tsukishima isn't immune to it. He purses his lips, pushes his glasses up, tries his best not to look like he's dying to talk about his research when he is. It's so immediately endearing that Tetsurou has to hide a smile in the hand he props his chin on. 'I stopped at a master's but I can still keep up with academic talk, I won't disappoint you.' 

'I'm holding you to that.' Tsukishima adjusts his glasses again, and then he rolls his sleeves up, and when he speaks next, his voice sounds different. 'All right, so the most relevant applications of computational musicology are the capacity to artificially produce music, and to note its evolution over time. To accomplish both of those, we need to be able to _analyse_ music, correct?' 

'Correct,' Tetsurou says. Tries not to make his internal laughter _too_ obvious. Is Tsukishima— in professor mode right now?  


'Now, what's the most basic, fundamental thing we need in order to be able to analyse large quantities of music?' 

Simple. 'A database.'  


Tsukishima points, raises an eyebrow. 'Bingo. The problem is, this branch of musicology developed much faster in the West than here, and as you can imagine, almost all of the analysis of raw audio data and the production and organisation of musical databases was focused on Western, specifically central European music. We need to work on our own databases. We don't even know how much Japanese music has been lost to history, and the current system isn't helping. So— that's what my team is working on.'  


'And where is this dream team?'  


Tsukishima— blushes. 'Geidai.'  


' _Geidai._ ' Tetsurou straightens up, puts a hand to his forehead dramatically. 'You've _got_ to be kidding me. Oh my God. Of course you're at Geidai. Why am I surprised? It's the water of Karumai, I just know it.'  


'I just— I mean, it was the only place for me to go.' _Accountant in Mexico._ 'But— yes. I think I've bored you enough with this.' 

'I'm not bored at all.' Tetsurou downs the last of his water, makes an impressed face. 'That's awfully noble of you, Tsukishima-san, to work on building something with no end.'  


'Isn't that what research is about?' he shrugs, looks up, the little golden details on his frames glinting under the lamp. 'Being the shoulders for the researchers of tomorrow?'

Tetsurou smiles _. Tomorrow._ Progress. Debt. Foundations. Shoulders, right, for tomorrow to stand on. It _is_ awfully noble of him, but not as noble as it would’ve been if Tetsurou were the one to do it. As it is, there are noble people, who think about tomorrow, and then there is Tetsurou, who isn’t allowed to think about anything but now. 

Then: ‘Excuse me,' Tsukishima says, straightening up, just as Suga lets out an honest-to-God scream from somewhere behind Tetsurou. Tsukishima looks— cold, immediately, distracted, staring with wide eyes at something in the distance. 'Sorry, I— I'll have to take your leave.' 

'Sure,' Tetsurou says, keeps his voice mild. Only when Tsukishima dodges out of his vision, almost striding over to his friends, does he turn around to see what all the commotion is. Frowns. 

Someone's at the entrance, and— 

'Is that a _guitar?_ ' Tetsurou mutters to himself. 'God damn it, Karumai.'

✶✶✶

Tobio sees him before anyone else. The doors swing open and he just knows, just knows. Looks up before anyone else does, and sees him before anyone else. Standing right there, feet spread apart, the light of the hallway so bright behind him that his body's just a silhouette, and that silhouette would be incomplete without the blacked-out shape of the guitar slung over his shoulder. Tobio sees him before anyone else, but then he steps inside the room, and the light falls on him, and the world is all sound. All sound. The world is all sound.  


Suga-san gasps loud enough for Tobio to hear, then yells loud enough for the entire room to hear. ' _Oh my God!_ '  


Tobio reaches blindly behind him, finds a shirt, clutches it.  


'I know,' Kei replies, hand on the small of his back. 'It's fine. Sit still. It's fine.'  


It's not. It's not fine, because Tobio can't hear anything over the roaring in his ears, and all action he sees slow— Suga-san running to the doors and leaping forward; the pair of arms that goes around his waist, the embrace, the grin, Suga-san's hand in that mess of red curls. They sway back and forth, laughing, and Tobio's fingers are going numb, now.  


'You little brat!' Suga-san cries, pulling back to look him in the face. 'You said you wouldn't be able to make it!'  


'It wouldn't be a surprise then!' Oh, God, his voice. 'That's no fun!' 

No fun. Yeah, that sounds about right. He's never given Tobio a warning a single day in his life, it's not like he'd start now, all these years later. In fact, just as much as Tobio thought he wouldn't be here tonight— maybe he thought the same, that Tobio wouldn't be here. Maybe he didn't, and just doesn't care. Maybe he doesn't care that Tobio is in the same room as him right now. Maybe he won't even notice. Maybe—  


He steps forward into the room and Tobio recoils as if he's about to be hit. His shoulder collides with Kei's, Kei steadies him. 

He steps forward into the room. And— oh. He's so much worse in person. Tobio's memorised every single song of his, starting from the first blurry Youtube covers. Especially the first blurry Youtube covers. Watched his concert videos enough times to burn them inside his eyelids. But he's so much worse when he's half a room across from Tobio and existing in the same space again. When he's like _this,_ when the last time Tobio saw him, he was— he was— and it's so much worse because he hasn't noticed, is laughing away at whatever Daichi-san is yelling at him, laughing, still, as he turns to the rest of the room.  


'I don't think I need to present him,' Suga-san says, and everyone's already cheering; it's not everyday that a chart topper crashes your dinner party. 'But just in case, _Hinata Shouyou,_ everybody.’

He's brought his guitar because of course he has. His silhouette would be incomplete without it. It gets in the way as he goes around hugging Noya-san and Tanaka-san, almost hits Shimizu-san on the hip as he bows in front of her, rubbing the back of his head. Suga-san is still laughing in disbelief, eyes glittering over the hand he has on his mouth, a pure explosion of joy. Sparks and electricity and a whirlwind of motion, transforming the party in a second. Energy so bright it's hard to look at. It's always been so hard to look at him, and now he's turning to them, and he—  


No, he didn't know Tobio would be here. His laugh stops short in its tracks, lips frozen in an open-mouthed smile but eyes flinching as if he's been slapped. There's just one second where he looks like his night is falling apart too, and Tobio thinks, just as well.  


But Hinata Shouyou's never been anything but loud, and brave, and loud. Everything Tobio isn't, which is why when Shouyou comes forward with the strides of a lion, he wants nothing more than to disappear. Each stride a year. One, two, three. Something strange and scary on his face. Four, five, six, seven. He hasn't seen Shouyou in seven years. Hasn't touched him. How many times has Shouyou's skin remade itself since Tobio last touched him? How many skins? His face, golden, those brown eyes. Piercings shining in his ears. His arms that so easily lifted Suga-san at the door. The strength of his legs to stride like that towards Tobio as if he's going to make him pay. As if Tobio isn't already paying. 

But— behind him is Suga-san, rooted to the spot, worry on his face. That's what makes Tobio breathe in and gather himself— this isn't about him. It's not about Shouyou either, even though he's always made things about himself, like he just did with the evening. This is someone else's celebration and someone else's life. They're just going to have to be adults.  


'Hi,' Shouyou says, and it's going to be so hard to be an adult. Tobio's heart cracks clean in two like clouds splitting before the sun. 'Wow.'  


The last time Tobio saw him, he was thinner, weaker, paler. Smaller. Now here he is, and his _voice,_ worst of all. Deeper, rougher, sweeter. Him, but a hundred times over. A hundred times himself. A wall of sound. 

Tobio can't get his own voice to work, but he grits his teeth, nods. Shouldn't have drank everything he did; feels like he'll scream if he breathes wrong. He can't stand to look. Did standing near him always feel so much like burning alive?

But then the wall of sound composes himself and looks away, and just like that their moment is over. Tobio feels like he _has_ been hit, the cold crashing into him like a wave. 

Shouyou tries a smile, directed over Tobio's shoulder. 'Tsukki, it's been months! How is everything? First-years still giving you trouble?'  


Kei's clearly forgotten how to act when Tobio and Shouyou are in the same room. Tobio pities him too, and Yamaguchi, and Yachi. Knows full well that he was the one who broke their group apart because he couldn't get the fuck over any of it, and that it's because of him that Kei doesn't know how familiar to act. It's fucking stupid; they're all best friends, have always been, will always be. They've managed to keep up this bullshit dance for years now; there's no need to stop just because of a chance encounter. And anyway, Tobio always knew he'd be seeing him at the ceremony, if nowhere else. Always knew that he stayed in touch with everyone but Tobio.

'Excuse me,' he says flatly, dislodge's Kei hand which is still on his waist. Ducks away from between them.

The best man is still at the bar, and he looks openly puzzled, but he's more of an adult than Tobio. Turns away with tact as Tobio settles heavily on one of the stools. Tobio asks for the strongest thing under the counter, and just then a soft hand lands on his wrist, fingers curling gentle and careful. 

‘Kageyama-kun,' Yachi says, then doesn't add anything. There's nothing to say. Hasn't been for seven years. And anyway, there's nothing like coming face-to-face with the biggest mistake of your life to kill conversation. Tobio would know; he doesn't even need to see Shouyou for it to kill the conversation sometimes. Between him and Kei, between him and Yamaguchi. Between him and himself. Shouyou has always been able to do that from wherever he is. Separate Tobio from his own self.

By the time he downs his drink, Shouyou's transformed the party. Hasn't brought his guitar for nothing, after all. Tobio sees him perch on a cleared table, feet on a chair, checking his tuning then looking up with a wild, unfettered grin, like he's already forgotten Tobio's here. He's so bright it hurts to look at him, and his voice his bubbling with laughter when he asks for song requests.

'Come on, give me a beat,' he says. 'I know at least half of you from high school. I know you can give mea beat.'  


They can, even though it's basic. He picks up the rhythm of their clapping and launches into the chords of one of his biggest hits. An uncanny number that does something horrible to Tobio's chest to hear live, frank and raw, something about first loves. He was on that train to Mishima with them too, thirteen years ago, and he remembers. Always a performer, even back when he was fifteen and would almost vomit, he was so full to the hair with nerves. Back then it was Tobio who would stride out onto a stage and bow, take his place, play with proud flair. Now he's looking for masks in Prague and Shouyou's the nation's delight, and here he is, and now he's singing. It's the only sound Tobio ever wants to remember. The only sound ever.

_Only you,_ he sings, to everyone and no one at all, which has always been his style. _Only you, only you, only you. Only you._

Only me, Tobio thinks, then gets up to leave. What a lonesome fucking thing to be.

✶✶✶

Tetsurou used to be an investment analyst. Then he died. 

Precisely, his heart stopped for six minutes and then sputtered back to life like the moody engine of some decade-old motorbike, and he wasn't even around for any of the fun bits, only the absurdly painful part of learning to be a mind inside a body again. _I died and all I got was this machine in my chest and a fraught relationship with God, who I previously believed existed. Oh, and this shitty T-shirt._  


The night is all orange embers now, a shade of complicity that he hasn't felt part of for years. It's absolutely for lack of trying, on his part, not theirs. No, they've done— and continue to do— everything in their power to drag him back into the friendship of things, and it's only because he remembers how they looked when he opened his eyes two days later, that he allows them to even try. He remembers it clear as day; the way Koutarou and Daichi were splinters of themselves; his father barging into the room with a raw sound; the beeping. Yaku, Kenma, all of them. Even Akaashi. Tetsurou remembers thinking to himself, _fuck. Am I really important enough to make Akaashi Keiji cry? Is that a good thing?_

Hinata has an incredible voice; Tetsurou would've recognised it from bar playlist if he hadn't already been made privy to all of his discography through Suga over the years. The song definitely isn't regular adult fare, but then again, Hinata doesn't look like regular adult fare himself. Timbs and jeans and a charming waxed jacket over a beige sweater; handsome but young, and full of life. They all are, Suga sighing happily with his whole body, Koutarou and Akaashi working as a unit to help the staff clear the tables. Even Kageyama, slumped over the bar right behind Tetsurou, is full of life because he's full of feeling. Even if that feeling apparently isn't very pleasant, it's still there. Filling him up just like the sound of Hinata's song is filling the room.  


He watches as they sing along, as one number blends into another, until Daichi finally takes the guitar away and sets it aside, says _that's enough, drinks and dancing, we're getting old and this party won't last forever._ No, it won't; that's for sure. Tomorrow they'll all nurse their hangovers while Tetsurou will be up at six on his treadmill that he had to buy because he couldn't stand to walk at such a pathetic speed in front of others at the gym, not even Koutarou. Then he'll have a smoothie of the greens he had to replace all red meat with, and watch three episodes straight of _Peaky Blinders,_ yelling out loud when the music hits just right. 

That is, if tomorrow comes. Not only because it's barely eleven and it seems like this party really _will_ last forever, given how they've only now dimmed the lights and cleared the floor and Tsukishima is throwing furtive glances his way like he's debating how best to return and reopen the conversation while his best friend languishes in the background. Not only because of the fearless revelry of the evening, orange and full to bursting with warmth. No, it's also because Tetsurou, for whom the only constant in life now is always, always, always wondering if tomorrow will come, never wonders so acutely as he does on nights like this one. Wonders if he's peaked, if this is it, if the neon red lamp hovering above his head is going to light up now. 

That's why he refuses to be dragged back. It's as simple and stupidly obvious as the glowing green strokes on a cardiogram. Better to stay as close to a flatline as possible so that it doesn't take anyone by surprise again when it happens. No peaking. No burgers. No sudden movements. 

'Kuroo-san?' 

Tetsurou starts. 

'Sorry,' Tsukishima says, but he's trying not to smile. 'Did I interrupt an intense reverie about how life is in the simple things and money is useless?' 

His guard is down; he laughs outright at that, shakes his head, drags a hand down his face. 'No, I was just— ah, never mind. Is your friend all right?'  


'He'll live. We'll be going soon, actually, so I thought I'd come by to say goodnight.' 

'Oh, no,' Tetsurou groans, teasing. 'But we only spoke for ten minutes! I haven't told you about my list of harmless yet hilarious potential wedding pranks yet, how will you ever have a good first impression of me?' 

At that, Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but the amusement is clear on his face; he's pleased. And— Tetsurou will never play along with Suga’s matchmaking schemes, but if he really had a problem with it he'd have told him to knock it off the first time. As it is, he doesn't need to tell anyone else to stop it; does the job well enough himself the moment a conversation turns real. 

This is far from turning real, so when Tsukishima thrusts out his phone, redness blooming over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, Tetsurou happily takes it and taps his number in. 

'Only for the pranks, of course,' Tsukishima says.

'Only for the pranks.' Tetsurou means it. 

And then he's walking away, just like that, and Tetsurou doesn't bother to watch him go, turns back instead to the mess of his favourite people all happy and infinite. 

He has only one constant in life, and only one manual break to that constant; reminds himself that if not for him, then for them: tomorrow better come.


	3. february 21, 3:54 PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sapporo concert hall, kitara](https://www.kotobuki-seating.co.jp/en/cd/app/?C=project&H=default&D=00909)

Tonight the keys are pebbles, and the notes a waterfall. They tumble over themselves, but if you listen closely, you can hear each individual drop that makes up the crashing white of the whole. At least, that's what Tobio wanted when he first dreamt this piece up at the foot of the Iguaçu Falls, completely drenched in the cold spray and eyes seeing rainbow stars from all the refraction. He'd never felt so small and spread open for a private universe as he did in that moment, surrounded by curtains and curtains of roaring water, as if the world had been cut off by a sound barrier nothing and no one could get through. It had been just him, cold, shivering, _thrilled,_ and that night at the hotel he'd sat down at the electric keyboard he lugged around everywhere, and started playing. 

Oikawa-san had been there, both at the falls and in the bright hotel room, the balcony leading out to trees, trees, trees. The moment Tobio put his hands to the keys Oikawa-san had pulled his phone out, a piss-poor recorder but one that would do. And anyway, Oikawa-san's never needed more than a shitty phone recording to write down the score of Tobio's hands flying over the keyboard; it's not for nothing that he's one of the only three people who play scribe to Tobio regularly, despite the label's insistence that he hire someone specific for the job. (On the other hand, neither Miwa nor Kei like shitty phone recordings, especially not Kei, who'll put up with it the first time but make sure to remind Tobio that his genius will have to wait until he can get his hands on his recording setup. _You moody bastard._ )

The notes are a waterfall. They'll never be close to the thundering of Iguaçu, but he can try. Try to make it something less awesome and more light. Not— not _oh, I am only me and the sky is so big—_ but maybe _the sky is big and here I am._

The sky is big and here I am. It's what he always thinks of when he plays this piece, and tonight he thinks it harder than ever. 

It's his second time performing at Kitara in as many years, but there's a magic about the place that he knows will stay on his shoulders long after the concert is over. The colour of the wood, the incredible brightness of the lights above, and that beautiful, terrifying organ right behind him— the audience all seated in waves, looking down at him as he plays in the empty white of the stage, black piano and black suit. Tobio can always see himself in his mind's eye when he plays; always analysing how he looks, if his back is in a straight enough line. Knows that he has a kind of largeur in his movements, wide and sweeping like the flight of a great black bird. Knows that he has exactly three compositions that make every single audience gasp, and that this isn't one of them, but it still has a place in this golden Sapporo evening. 

_alonealone,_ the piece is called, all tinkling notes and waterfalls. Whenever Tobio plays it he thinks of Oikawa-san's terrible jokes and the hearty warm food of a foreign place, and he thinks the magic of it _is_ in the fact that neither of those things has anything to do with the name at all.

✶✶✶

Tetsurou _is_ a bar owner. Has been since he was twenty-seven and putting on his most earnest face to convince his father and Koutarou's parents that a pair of twenty-seven-year-olds were capable of handling a stylish hole-in-the-wall place in Hatagaya, and deserving of the funds for the same. It hadn't taken much convincing, though they'd been warned that if they weren't turning a solid profit by the time they were thirty, it'd be sold, no negotiation, and Koutarou would go back to working for Keiji's mother's firm, while Tetsurou would be left to his own devices. ( _Devices._ No one appreciates his humour enough.)  


He's lucky that they seem to be on an upward curve, then, because Tetsurou has no other plans. He doesn't mean it flippantly or quirkily or worse, pretentiously: he means it sincerely, in the purest sense of the phrase. He has no plans. Or maybe, he has one plan at a time, and his current plan is this little place nestled right between a craft beer brasserie and a cat café like this whole neighbourhood is a parody of itself. Maybe if this falls through he'll come up with another plan, which would lead to amending his previous statement: it's not that Tetsurou doesn't have plans. He just has no plan B, ever. This _is_ the plan B, provided to him by the universe without his asking for it.  


**Tsukishima [13:31]  
** That's exactly what I'm saying. How come there was no factoring in of sound dilation through the dream levels? Even when we're dreaming normally, we hear our alarm slowly before processing it's a real sound. Technically they would've only heard a singular note in the hotel already, so let alone limbo.  


**Me [13:35]  
** Sorry, I know you're making an important point here  
But I'm cracking up imagining La vie en rose sounding like a bunch of cows mooing

  
**Tsukishima [13:36]  
** It was Je ne regrette rien, actually.  
Okay, I know how that makes me sound. 

Behind the counter, Inuoka's humming a song to himself that sounds too new for Tetsurou to know it. He's still in college, after all, big hair and T-shirts with puns on them, and an easy adoring smile, and altogether too much energy for someone sacrificing Friday afternoon to stocking. Not that Tetsurou doesn't appreciate it; it keeps the atmosphere lively while he works on the accounts, and he feels less lonely. 

The bar _is_ a hole in the wall. It's a narrow rectangular room, with metal stairs going up to the second floor, which is another narrow rectangular room. Maximum capacity fifty if all the patrons want half a metre's radius of personal space, twenty-five for personal reservations if they want seating for everyone. He knows Koutarou'll want to expand, move shop at some point if things are going really well, but he doesn't think about all that himself. He'll cross that bridge if he makes it there, but in the meantime, it's his favourite hole in the wall, dark brick and green accents, and even vines on the wall behind the counter. Specialised in rum, though almost everything's on the menu. It has more loyal regulars than a varied clientele, which works just fine for them, and is as much a part of the personality they wanted to cultivate for the establishment as the menu and decor itself. 

**Me [14:03]  
** To be fair, my instructions were perfectly clear and what's more it was a text  
He could've seen in writing that I was listing what booze we had, not what booze we needed  
But since he doesn't fucking know how to read he went and bought all the same things

**Tsukishima [14:05]  
** So instead of putting it away you all decided that you might as well finish everything?

**Me [14:06]  
** You'd think that night's the primary reason I stopped drinking, but not even

Last Friday was wildly successful, his spreadsheet tells him, as Inuoka hums away. Of course it was; Valentine's day right at the beginning of the weekend meant the place was full within half an hour of opening, and they'd had to stop serving their cotton candy special at ten. Suga had put together a playlist for them that was romantic without being too disgusting, though Tetsurou _had_ cringed at a couple of numbers simply because they matched up perfectly with the bustling street he could see from the second-floor window. He'd relayed as much to Tsukishima, who'd immediately demanded a copy of the playlist so that he could be judgemental about it all but scientifically.  


_Mostly pulls through,_ he'd texted back. _Though I'd rather die than listen to half the artists on here. Still pulls through._

Tsukishima, then, is judgemental, but scientifically. If Tetsurou cared enough to be infuriated, he would be, but as it is he only has to put up with it via text, and it's actually endearing how earnest he is about things, more so when Tetsurou can text back something simple yet inflammatory like _I love Nickelback_ and receive an in-depth analysis of precisely when they should've stopped producing music and why, within fifteen minutes. 

He wonders what it's like, actually. Or— more that he's trying to remember what it's like, to talk. To be like Koutarou and inflict yourself on everyone without a care, or to be like Tsukishima and unafraid to be earnest about what you have to say, so quickly, to someone you’ve met only once. To not only enjoy a conversation, but to think about what topic the next message might lead to. Tetsurou's always been gifted at knowing the right thing to say, but he can't remember the last time he used it to continue talking and not to shut an interaction down. 

**Tsukishima [14:13]  
** A bar owner who doesn't drink? It doesn't get more poetic than this, you know.  


He hasn't tried to shut this down for three weeks, now. Acutely remembers that he was the one to send the first message, if only to reassure Tsukishima that he hadn't handed out his number under pressure. When that turned into a constant stream of exchanges, lengthy and high-octane and entirely too enthralling, he doesn't know. What he does know is that he can yank it back under control whenever he wants, which is the most important thing.

**Me [14:16]  
** My life's an epic that'd make the Greeks turn green  
The Great Death of Kuroo Tetsurou

Tsukishima takes long enough to reply that Tetsurou can lean back in his chair, cross his arms behind his head, stare without focus at his spreadsheet and revel in the triumph of checkmate. It's terrible and good like bitters, a way he can still hold his own against people. Maybe Tsukishima, bested, won't reply at all, which will only be a little bit disappointing in the grand scheme of things. It's not like Tetsurou had plans for them.

✶

**Tsukishima [14:40]  
** How far are you from Ueno Park?

✶✶✶

It's not Sapporo without dinner at the Beer Garden. He's only in town once every six months if that, so he never has the heart to refuse Hoshiumi for dinner and drinks, even when all he wants to do post-concert is crawl into bed and sleep. It's especially bad tonight, with the mid-February snow coming down hard on the city and making him shiver in his coat, but he makes it anyway, and it's worth it. Red brick walls and old school lighting, the smell of smoking meat, the sound of casual conversation; the sight of Hoshiumi. It's all warm in a way the concert hall will never be, not a place to belong but at least a place to slide into and be warm.  


Hoshiumi isn't planning on making it that easy for him, though; Tobio can tell the minute he takes his seat at the table. Sighs and unwraps his scarf, sets it aside as Hoshiumi leans forward, unsettling green eyes all narrow, frown twisting his lips. 

'Called it,' he says, then, leaning back, arms crossed. 'You sounded weird on the phone.' 

'Aren't you the one who always says I sound dead when I speak?' 

'Exactly. You didn't sound dead. You sounded weird.' 

Tobio rolls his eyes, retort interrupted by the waiter who hands them two menus. They accept them even though they'll both order the special, and go back to glaring at each other. Hoshiumi's better because he puts his soul into it, while Tobio's just glaring because he has no other option. It's not like he can use the concert as an excuse either; Hoshiumi plays himself, though in an orchestra, and has known Tobio for five years now. There's no way he's buying that.

But— Hoshiumi's only known Tobio for five years. Doesn't figure on the list of people to whom Tobio can say _oh, just,_ then break off, and have them understand. If Hoshiumi somehow knows that there is a gaping hole in Tobio's life in the shape of someone slight and powerful just like him, he's never really mentioned it. They don't really talk about things that aren't music and nonsense. This is both and neither. (Shouyou is always music, first.)

'Earth to Kageyama. We need to get a beer in you.' Hoshiumi looks stupidly triumphant about his own conclusion, and there's no refusing him, so Tobio lets him order when the waiter comes back around, and tries to make his face look like he's excited for the meal. He probably doesn't succeed.

Eating outside isn't really a post-concert ritual unless he's in Sapporo. For the most part he prefers going right back to the hotel, ordering food up to his room, and eating cross-legged on the bed watching nature documentaries on the television until he falls asleep. He saves all analysis for the next day, when he can look back on his performance with a rested mind and figure out if there's anything to analyse in the first place. It isn't really a question of getting better anymore; it's a question of whether he felt like he was getting the music across to the world or not. It's not black and white though he wishes it was; wishes he could say things like _I'm not feeling it tonight_ and _oh, I'm in the zone,_ or _it's a good, good day._

No, Tobio knows no highs or lows. There's a flat line running through a certain point he's selected like picking out the evening star, and all he has to do is walk that line with balance every single day of his life. But then again, maybe that doesn't explain much. As it is Tobio knows only two metaphors, and only one of them is piano. 

By the time the beer arrives Hoshiumi's done acting triumphant, but now he's concentrating, which is worse. He has a shameless way of staring people down that Tobio's long since lost the habit of, and he doesn't fucking let up until he gets what he wants, usually.

He wants to know. 'You know you can just, frame whatever the hell it is as something that happened to a friend, right? Just be all, _Hoshiumi-san, so a friend of mine got into trouble, what's your opinion on it._ ' 

'You're twenty-seven years old.' 

'So are you, and I'm not the one sulking and ruining beer time. So either pretend to be over it for the next two hours, or let me be the beacon of wisdom and encouragement that I am.' 

' _Fine._ ' Tobio takes a large gulp of his beer, sets his down, clears his throat. Looks at Hoshiumi. Takes a deep breath. 

Shouyou had chased after them that night, caught up to them under the fancy velvet awning of the building, minutes after they'd bid their goodnights to everyone. Tobio knows he wasn't the only one being chased; he knows that. Knows that it was because even though Tadashi and Hitoka were seeing the party through to the end, Kei’d never have let Tobio go home alone. Knows that Shouyou chased after them so that there could be one person in the middle, as buffer. 

_Don't do this,_ he'd said without starting off with something, _anything_ less rude. _Please. It's a celebration, right?_

In a stunning fucking display of helpfulness, Kei, instead of playing buffer, had stalked off to the side and lit up a cigarette. If he had his earphones on him he'd even have put them in. But Tobio couldn't tear his eyes off Shouyou's face, in half-shadow half-light under the awning, looking up at him like _that._ Like honesty. Like— like it was easy for him to _talk_ about this. 

Tobio couldn't talk about it. Had a million things he wanted to spit back, _you think I'm leaving because of you, you think I'm scared, well, I fucking am._ But standing there on that winter evening, Tobio was struck with just how much he didn't know how to speak to Shouyou anymore. The words wouldn't come. The voice wouldn't come. The air wouldn't come. And he was struck, then, by how much Shouyou didn't know how to listen to him anymore. 

_Kageyama,_ he'd said, a name he hadn't used for Tobio since they were seventeen. _We've got eight months to go until the wedding. There'll be more parties. More meetings. Can we please just— for Suga-san?_

At that he'd managed to move his tongue, though his voice sounded hoarse, like he'd forgotten how to use it.

_Yeah, okay,_ he'd said. _But— not tonight._

'Kageyama.' 

He blinks. Hoshiumi's— not staring, now. Something else. It's something kinder, even though Tobio hasn't said a single word yet.

'Are you safe?' Hoshiumi asks then. 'At least tell me that. Are you healthy? Is everyone fine?' 

'Yeah,' Tobio replies immediately, ashamed. 'Sorry. No, I'm safe. We're all fine.' 

'Okay, let's forget it, then.' Hoshiumi leans back and motions to the table, all grand and obnoxious. 'Drink up, dig in, and then let's go get completely fucking smashed in Susukino.'

'This is why I keep you around,' Tobio says seriously.

✶✶✶

Tsukishima shushes him. 

Tetsurou stares at him, lowering his scarf to make sure Tsukishima knows that he is fully staring at him. It does nothing to phase Tsukishima, however; he only nods towards the gates of the department of music that lead out into the rest of the park, and makes a motion with his gloved hand that looks like _come on._

So Tetsurou goes, but only because he spent a full hour to get here and he won't leave before he knows what Tsukishima wants. Maybe he's going to take Tetsurou to one of the museums and try to impose the lofty ideals of history, humanity and community on him. Maybe he wants to make out against a tree because Tetsurou's just caustic enough to be attractive to him. (He wouldn't be the first to think so, and not the first to be wrong.) 

But Tsukishima says nothing. At least, not until they've made their way onto a narrow path lined on either side with ginkgos, naked for the winter. They're the only ones there this close to sunset, and when Tsukishima turns around, the bare sky sneaks in through the thorny branches and lights up his face in even, fragile pastels. Tetsurou notes, then, that this is the first time he's seeing Tsukishima outside and in the day. He's different, with his soft-looking grey turtleneck rising all the way up to his jaw, beige coat open wide down to his knees. His cheeks are red from the cold. Pretty, Tetsurou thinks dispassionately. 

'I do this with the first-years,' Tsukishima says, then, and Tetsurou had kind of forgotten how soft his voice is. Softer, even, in the muted cold of late February. 'I make them walk outside in the park, and note everything they hear, record what sounds most interesting. Just that.' 

'You're having me do a music assignment right now?' Tetsurou shakes his head, laughs into his hand. 'And what's the grading based on?' 

'No grading. Only two rules— no talking, and pay attention. Be deliberate about it.' The further they advance the more it feels like this path is neverending; it's the only thing Tetsurou can see, stretching grey and pink and gold on both ends, and the trees tall and sharp and endless. 'It's not about trying to make it spontaneous or natural. The point of the exercise is being deliberate.' 

'Why?' 

Tsukishima stops again. This time, when he turns around, he looks, for a second, completely unsure of himself. 

'It's a good way to take it back,' he says. 'To make the listening your own again.' 

Tetsurou has a number of questions, the most pressing being _who do you think you are_ and the second-most pressing being _who do you think I am,_ but he swallows them in favour of raising his eyebrows and nodding. He isn't affronted, not really, and it sounds better than Tsukishima making approximate deductions about him in a museum, at least. And— it's approximate, as far as deductions go. It isn't necessarily incorrect. 

So Tetsurou walks, and he listens. Strains his ears to catch the slightest of sounds, and despite himself, is genuinely surprised at everything he manages to hear that he wouldn't really have paid attention to otherwise. Tsukishima's smart for having his students do this in a park; out in the mess of the city, he can imagine that more than one of them would end up overwhelmed and buzzed out. Even this stretch of woods isn't completely immune to the sounds of faraway traffic; honks, the hiss of brakes releasing, pedestrian announcements. But it seems so much farther away than it is, kind of like— well, kind of like hearing his alarm in his dreams just before he wakes up. 

No, he isn't affronted, because Tsukishima might be subjecting him to some sort of new age therapy session that he's decided all on his own is necessary, but he isn't trying to hypothesise, which is a lot more than Tetsurou can say about most new people he meets. It's what makes him classify them as new people in the first place; the fact that they don't know. And Tetsurou can't even imagine explaining what happened to anyone who wasn't there when he woke up, let alone explain everything that came after. And—  


Tsukishima's waving at him; he blinks. Then huffs out a silent laugh as Tsukishima taps his own ear, eyebrows raised pointedly. _Concentrate._

Tetsurou concentrates. Somewhere deep within the woods there must be a wintering ground; he can hear birdcalls. The nearly soundless fall of their boots on the concrete, only the occasional rustle. He tries to imagine what all this would sound like in spring, then pushes that thought away in favour of the now. 

Winter is the most silent of seasons, and as he's discovering, that silence has a sound profile of its own, characterised by chilled breaths and dry scrapes and the way everything is quieter as if a blanket has been thrown over the world. Heavy like another weight on his chest, but light all the same, as if one big warm gust of spring rains would be enough to dispel it all. 

Before he knows it their shadows have grown longer all of a sudden, and the reds of the setting sun are taking over the path. Tsukishima's hair is spun gold under that light, and his eyes, when he raises them to Tetsurou's, have taken on that shine, too. 

'Can I ask you something?' he says, and Tetsurou adds that sound to his inventory too, the upturn of his voice when he's asking a question. Then he nods his permission. 'The thing about indie awakenings, Kuroo-san, is that once people have them, they aren't blasé anymore. They're happy.' 

Tetsurou raises his eyebrows. 'That's not a question.' 

'No, it isn't.' Tsukishima keeps walking, just a little slower now; they've turned and the world will arrive too soon. 'You don't seem like those people to me. I know we barely know each other, but— to me, it feels like— like you've followed all the steps of your indie awakening in order, but it just never clicked. So— that's my question. Am I right?' 

_Am I right?_ No one's ever asked Tetsurou that before. It's always _what gives? What's wrong? What happened? Why are you like this? What are you doing?_ It's never _am I right?_ No one ever tries to confirm their hypothesis that something's wrong. Something's wrong, they decide, and so something's wrong. And so Tetsurou shuts things down. 

'Has it occurred to you that I might miss it?' he says, then, squinting into the winking sun. ‘How things were pre-indie awakening?’ 

Tsukishima is silent; he's seriously considering. The sun keeps going down.

'No,' he says finally. 'It didn't occur to me, because the next logical question would be, well, why don't you go back, then?' 

Tetsurou smiles at the pretty face and pretty voice before him, and shakes his head. He should be getting back to the bar soon; Friday evenings are hectic.  


'I can't,' he replies. 'It was another life.' 


	4. daybreak

_Isn't it amazing how flowers just know when it's spring?_ Shouyou had said once, sprawled on his back on the dusty stage, guitar propped up against the wall, voice echoing. _I'll never get over it. One day you wake up and everything is in bloom, not one single branch is bare. It's like something ran across and whispered to all of them that it's time to wake up. All at once._

The end of March brings the cherry blossoms. It's one of those times of the year where he and Kei let themselves be dragged around the city by the nose, while Yamaguchi and Yachi lap all of it up as if it's the first time. Complete with traditional wear (that he and Kei always refuse) and food from every single stall they can manage to stop at. Today's arena is Ueno because Kei was stuck in a meeting until six, and because it's a perfect weekday spot. Just busy enough to keep Yamaguchi happy, just calm enough for the rest of them to breathe. The ground is covered in blue tarp, lending weird colours to everything— Yachi’s pale hair and pink-purple lips, the bark of the trees, even the sky itself. All ready to be filled in by the evening. 

The first time he'd been to a festival in Tokyo was when he was eighteen, and it'd knocked him to the ground. There was so much of everything; coming from a little town in the middle of nowhere that was more plant than concrete and more sky than land, he'd learned a life that was one with nature from the start. Hadn't thought that down in the big city, nature attacked like a reminder of itself, and that it took over so fully, but for only a short while. It'd felt like everything had to be eaten quickly, smelt quickly, seen quickly, and in huge doses: it'd be gone the next day without warning, and the cars and subways and lights would be back. It had made him ache for Karumai's streams and birds, but that day nearly ten years ago, he'd learned how to— sift it. Separate it. Parse it. Take what he wanted to from a moment, let the rest flow back. And then again, he'd ached for Karumai, but there was a hand in his that wouldn't let him ache for _home._

The air is stuffy and filled to the brim with the smell of food, so strong that it completely covers whatever faint scent the blossoms themselves have. Still, Tobio catches a few falling petals every now and them, crushes them gently between his hands, brings them up to his nose. It makes Kei snort and roll his eyes every year, but it isn't Tobio's own habit, so he's stubborn about maintaining it. It barely smells like anything anyway, which always makes him think, just as well. He brushes them off and puts his hands back in his pockets, tips his head back as far as it'll go, until the only thing in his view is the endless canopy of pink over blue. Flowers, flowers, flowers. 

✶

The third time in a row that he'd been to the festival in Tokyo, he was twenty. And if he'd known it was the last time he'd get to feel that the world had dressed up just for him— in the way the blossoms shook themselves out over the rich copper of Shouyou's hair— he would've composed something much louder than what he ended up writing that night. Wrists still tingling from where Shouyou's lips and teeth had been, but only calm in his chest. He would've written something much louder. Would've made his piano howl, somehow. Some sort of alert. 

But he didn't know, and maybe it's good that he didn't, because what he ended up writing was simple and quiet and so in love it made Miwa tear up when she heard it. He remembers. She was sitting on the armrest of the couch, tip of her pen between her teeth, and her nose was red, eyelashes wet. She hadn't said anything. Just ruffled his hair and kissed the crown of his head. But that was the first time he'd seen her like that, as if she was learning a new emotion, and already thinking about when it'd be gone.

✶

Kei’s taking pictures, which is an event of its own, because he only uses his phone to listen to music and rant about his colleague, Futakuchi, in the group chat. No one’s said anything about it because if there’s one thing he hates more than being noticed, it’s being noticed while he’s doing something that qualifies him as a person and not the hacker in a spy film. Still, he knows what he’s doing, because Tobio can see the flush on his face go all the way to his ears. His mouth is tight too, like he’s trying to disapprove of something that’s all pure good. It’s nice to look at. Even nicer when they all know full well who the pictures are for.

They’ve been doing this for years now. It’s as much a group tradition as watching every new _Jurassic World_ release on Tobio’s flatscreen playing bingo for every time Kei will point out an inconsistency in his professor voice. Every year March brings the cherry blossoms, and every year they go to every single festival in the city save for Nakameguro, which Tobio skips. Every year Yamaguchi eats half of Yachi’s takoyaki and buys her sweets to make up for it, while Kei lingers behind them, trying not to look like he’s having a good time. Every year it becomes less of what it was when he was twenty, and gets closer to being something he can share with them. 

It’s different this year. Like the water he was holding at bay’s decided to come back, but as a leak, not a rush. Yes— life has sprung a leak. He’s wondering if Yamaguchi and Yachi are going to meet up with Shouyou after this, if the blossoms are something he needs consoling about, too. It’s a tension no one can feel but him (and Kei probably, because there’s a weird and terrifying thread that connects their two brains) and it’s— like watching a film, knowing something’s off when no one onscreen knows. Tobio’s removed from it all. Removed from himself.

He can’t resist, suddenly. Between Kei trying to be discreet by hiding his phone halfway in his fucking sleeve and the way Yamaguchi keeps finding excuses to play with Yachi’s hair, he’s stuck between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream, so he does both. 

‘Hey,’ he says, mock-angry. ‘Can you all stop being so cheesy for half an hour, damn it. It hurts my single heart to look at you.’ 

That does it. He’s never seen three people look so fucking horrified so fast, and for three different reasons to boot. Kei’s just discovered other people have eyes, Yachi’s worried Tobio’s actually hurt, and Yamaguchi had no idea he was doing it again. 

They all blink at him, shocked that he made such an open joke or mentioned love lives at all, until Kei recovers. 

‘What the _fuck_ makes you think _I’m_ not single,’ he hisses, and they all crack up. ‘The pictures are for Akiteru. _Shut up._ ’ 

✶

It only struck Yamaguchi and Yachi that they might be in love when Yachi left for London on a year-long exchange and it almost killed Yamaguchi. They still joke about it, especially Kei, who basically has family rights. 

_It was a whole new him,_ he’d said to Yachi later, sighing loud. _He snapped at me all the time. Can you imagine? He only used to snap at me once a year before that._

They’d managed to get their act together before Yachi returned, and it’d taken all of Tobio’s control not to film the moment Yamaguchi went to get her at the airport. In fact, he’d decided to just sit in the car to be safe, and so had Kei. When they got back Yachi’s eyes were red as all hell and Yamaguchi looked like he could crumple up the sky in his fist. They were twenty-two, and Tobio had already let go of the sky two years ago. He was ashamed of it, the joy-pain. But there was joy. There’s always been joy. Joy sticks like sunlight on skin.

He’s had five years to get used to the sight of them together, which is more than enough because nothing really changed between them in the first place, and because it’s not about Tobio, fuck. No matter how personally he wants to take it, the way Yamaguchi is stealing a bite of Yachi’s takoyaki right now, or how Suga-san is going to marry _his_ high-school sweetheart right where he confessed. It’s not about him, he’s been telling himself four times a day when he sits down to work on the wedding composition. It’s not about him.

✶

By eight, it’s completely dark and the only light is from the street lamps and stalls. The crowd is thinning out, families gone, and others leaving too. Tobio’s regretting not bringing a heavier jacket and thinking about how good his bed is going to feel, just when Yamaguchi suggests ducking into a bar. Tobio’s about to refuse when Kei stops walking and turns to face them all with a look that says _I want to die._

‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘I have somewhere to be.’ 

Yamaguchi looks like he just won the lottery, which is kind of how Tobio feels. ‘Oh? Where would that be, on a Friday night?’ 

Kei mutters something so low none of them catch it.

‘I’m sorry, _where?_ ’

‘ _Kitanomaru,_ ’ he repeats, blood pressure ready to hit the sky. ‘Okay? With the fucking boats. Now whatever smartass comment you have to make, make it quick, because I’m getting late.’ 

‘No comment,’ Yamaguchi replies gleefully. ‘No comment at all, professor.’

✶

_(It’s statistics,_ Kei’d said one night. _Right? I know people aren’t statistics, but maybe relationships are. Like that episode of Black Mirror where they run the simulation a thousand times and the couple gets it right like ninety-eight percent of the time? Maybe Yamaguchi’s in that ninety-eight percent. Maybe you were just in that unlucky two percent._

_Fuck you,_ Tobio’d replied without lifting his head from Kei’s knee. _Of all the things to be in the rare two percent for._

_For what it’s worth, I didn’t think a two percent could exist for you and him. I didn’t even think a zero point two percent could exist.)_


	5. march 27, 10:32 PM

Tetsurou’s taken the car; he’d rather handle the traffic than the festival crowd in the metro. As it is, it’s not too terrible at this time of the evening; the fifteen-minute drive takes only thirty. Then again, he wonders how long those thirty minutes would’ve felt if he was alone.

Beside him, Tsukishima is looking out absently at the mess of Shibuya, the headlights and signboards catching the frame of his glasses, a sharp stripe of red light moving slowly over his bare throat as the cars crawl forward. Tetsurou watches as the colour reaches the very edge of the hair that curls where his neck meets his shoulders, then looks away. He smells of something impossible, a mix of mint and smoke, the air of a magically clean city brought to the dark interior of the car.

Instead of dwelling on it, Tetsurou rests a hand on the wheel after texting his father goodnight _,_ waiting for the light to turn green, and dwells instead on the blossoms. Rather, on the sight and sound of what felt like the entire world coming together to celebrate them, as if every spring is a surprise. Faint music and chatter, the sound of children laughing. In the middle of things, Tsukishima. Quiet until they found a place to sit, and then all quips and petals, stopping every once in a while to adjust his glasses, which Tetsurou has learned is a tell. For what, he doesn’t know, but that not-knowing is as sweet as the knowing itself, like every other little thing he’s noticed about Tsukishima in the past month. The way he likes to schedule things: walks on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when he has his afternoons off, and the same place on both days but a new place every week.

 _It’s easier to confirm your inventory that way,_ he’d said, the second time they met at Ueno. _This time you know what you’re listening for._

It was all Tetsurou’s idea, which surprises him more than anyone else (not that anyone else knows unless Tsukishima told, and for some reason he doesn’t think that’s likely). He can’t remember the last time he initiated Saturday plans, let alone a new experience altogether, but it seemed to be the least foolproof investment at the time; completely free of risk. It’s paying out well too; in no other world would he be sitting in a car past ten in the evening, thinking about falling flowers and smoked mint instead of gritting his teeth at the traffic. Eight walks in and he’s already a goddamn monk. His ex-therapist would weep.

The light changes; he gets the car into motion, lets his navigator tell him where to turn to break off for Hatagaya. Something catches Tsukishima’s eye; he leans against the window to get a better look, then huffs and straightens up. Tetsurou is as fascinated with his silences as he is with his words. They seem to be scheduled too, as if he decides every morning exactly what he’s going to say to whom and then quiets down once he’s done. He isn’t afraid of awkwardness. Tetsurou likes that in a conversational partner. And Tetsurou, actually, shouldn’t be having preferences in the people he meets, since he decided four years ago not to meet any new ones.

✶

If Tsukishima is impressed or unimpressed by the bar, Tetsurou doesn't have the time to gauge it before they're both swallowed up by the music and their friends' greetings. Koutarou hollers at them from behind the counter like this is high school; Tetsurou rolls his eyes. There's a differently aliveness to the place at night, even when the busy sounds of the neighbourhood are cut off by the door and they're left to the tinkling piano of whatever jazz piece is playing over the speakers. That has to be Akaashi's doing, then; he only picks the music when there are no other patrons. Sure enough, Tetsurou sees him suspiciously close to the sound system, idly stirring his drink and nodding along to whatever Shirofuku is animatedly recounting to him, her own beer just shy of sloshing over the edge of her mug. 

'Tsukki!' The sound of Hinata's is still strange to hear in person, and it's stranger still to see the easy way he bounds over to bump shoulders with Tsukishima, face all beaming smile. 'You're finally here! How's everyone? Yachi said the crowd wasn't too bad today!' 

Tetsurou leaves them to catch up, only sparing a second's glance to the graceful motion of Tsukishima slipping out of his coat and the way the green-gold lights play on his hair. Shrugs off his own jacket and throws it over a barstool as he vaults behind the counter, dips his head for Koutarou to kiss his hair in greeting. 

'Suga and Daichi?' he asks, and Koutarou rolls his eyes. 

'Upstairs _dealing with a phone call_ , apparently,' he replies. 'You'd better make Inuoka get in there with sanitiser tomorrow morning.' 

A mojito sounds perfect tonight. As Tetsurou absently muddles the mint and sugar, he lets himself observe the small table where Tsukishima and Hinata are sitting, Hinata leaning forward as if sharing a secret, smile still wide and red hair positively glowing in the near-dark. There is unmistakeable fondness in Tsukishima's posture, the way he leans back lazily, shakes his head, drawls out something smart, probably. He even tries Hinata's drink, makes a face, slides the tall glass back. Tetsurou squints at the colour of the liquid and tries to guess what it is, but it's too dark to tell, and then he's distracted simultaneously by Tsukishima laughing at something Hinata says, and the distinct sensation that he's crushed the leaves enough. Pours over the ice and soda and mixes, gives it a taste. Perfect. 

'Are you wondering what I'm wondering?' Koutarou says from beside him, and Tetsurou hums in question. 'Hinata and that pianist don't get along too well, do they? Kageyama? He left the engagement party right after Hinata showed up, too.' 

That wasn't what Tetsurou was wondering, but he isn't in the mood to explain to Koutarou why he was trying to discern the contents of a cocktail from three metres away, so he shrugs. 'I do think something's strange about that whole bunch, but it's none of our business, is it?' 

'Oh, mister goody two-shoes. I'm only asking because I've known Hinata for all of two evenings but he's a fucking delight. I can't imagine what he could've done to offend Kageyama.' 

'Going by the stories Suga's told me about what horrors they all were in school, he probably set Kageyama's piano on fire or something.' 

Koutarou isn't wrong. Tetsurou might not have given it much thought until Hinata entered his line of vision again, but now he _is_ wondering why at least the couple from last time isn't here to see him. It's not like he's close enough to Tsukishima to ask, so he might as well push it out of his mind. As long as no one's fighting in their bar— because he's had that before, and never again— he's fine. 

On cue, both Tsukishima and Hinata make their way over to the counter, Tsukishima settling on one of the stools, Hinata leaning over eagerly, elbows on the shiny wood. 

'Kuroo-san,' he says, 'what's the bar's special?' 

Tetsurou smiles, pretends to consider. 'That'd be the nameless special, but I can't tell you what's inside, of course.’ 

'Why nameless?' 

It's actually one of Tetsurou's favourite stories to tell. Back when they'd just bought the place and were setting it up at a ridiculous speed, they were so caught up with the interiors that they didn't bring out any signboard until the tail end of their process, when more than a few interested future patrons had already ambled around looking curiously at the setup. By the time they thought to light up the neon scrawl spelling the name out on one of the inside walls, the neighbourhood had already baptised the place _The Nameless Bar,_ and still refers to it as such two years later. It's part of the brand now, just like every other improbable thing about this place, and Tetsurou loves every second of it.

The nameless special, then, is served dark green and glittering in a shot glass, candied ginger impaled on the toothpick across its mouth. Hinata _oohs_ and _aahs_ like a child when Tetsurou brings the two glasses out, but Tetsurou's really looking for Tsukishima's reaction. Does he enjoy the little moments, does he just play along?

He plays along. Raises his eyebrows to indicate vague interest, picks up the toothpick carefully. 'Before or after?' 

'After. Trust me, you'll need it.' 

'Oh my God, did you give them the nameless special?' They turn in perfect time to catch Suga almost slipping on the stairs on his way down, grabbing onto the railing with both hands and yelping. ‘Tsukki, at least come greet me before you die.’ 

Tsukishima whirls back to narrow his eyes at Tetsurou. 'Tell me there isn't absinthe in here.' 

'I shall make no such promise,' Tetsurou replies grandly. 'But— out of curiosity— if there _were_ to be absinthe—' 

'Summer three years ago,’ Hinata says. Eyes wide like he's about to tell a horror story, which he probably is. 'We were in Osaka. I don't even remember what we were doing in Osaka.' 

'You had a show,' Tsukishima supplies. 'A show you just barely made it to, by the way, no thanks to the absinthe.' 

By the time Tetsurou learns of the Osaka adventure, which involved— among other things— two counts of trespassing, one chipped tooth, and a trip to the emergency room, he's so sick with laughter that he wonders if he accidentally made a real mojito. Tsukishima's deadpan sarcasm combined with Hinata's freakish mimicry makes for a storytelling prowess that is second to none; Tetsurou can't remember the last time their entire group, instead of talking over each other, was actively listening to someone else speak. The specials have lain untouched for nearly fifteen minutes now, even pushed closer to the back of the counter to make space for Akaashi, who has never learned to sit on a chair like a normal human being, and at one point they're nearly knocked over altogether.

Then the trail of anecdotes leads back to high school, and Hinata puts on a thunderous frown and mutters something in a voice so grouchy it has to be exaggerated. Tetsurou's lost track of the story, doesn't know who it's supposed to be an impression of— until Tsukishima, Suga, and Daichi all skip a beat before laughing, and the temperature drops a degree. Hinata cuts himself off in that way people have when they're afraid they've taken a joke too far, but before he can look too miserable about it Tetsurou sweeps in to save the day.  


'That was a lot of deflection to avoid the shots,' he says, reaching for the glasses again. 'Now drink up before they get too warm.' 

From the other end of the counter Suga sends him a near-imperceptible grateful nod, and then the sticky moment is done with. Mainly because Hinata lets out an actual screech upon swallowing his gulp of the drink, while Tsukishima lowers the glass in candid wonder, looking like he's going through all five stages of grief in thirty seconds. Koutarou and Tetsurou explode into laughter, high-fiving each other, watching as the two urgently shove the ginger into their mouths. 

'Think we've found something worse than the absinthe, Tsukki,' Hinata says weakly. 

Instead of answering him, Tsukishima turns to glare balefully at Tetsurou. 

'I'm never coming to your bar again,' he says, and Tetsurou cackles.

✶

He ends up not really having to ask. Near midnight when things are starting to wind down, Suga joins him behind the counter to help with cleanup, which there isn't even much of apart from where Koutarou knocked over a carton of pineapple juice and then decided it wasn't his problem. The others are slowly starting to put their coats on, looking at their phones, loathe to leave but exhausted. It's finally the end of the fiscal year, and Daichi and Akaashi both have positions almost beyond their mental means. Tetsurou doesn't grudge them their leaving.  


'Good save earlier,' Suga says, and Tetsurou shrugs, wrings out the washcloth. 'It'd have been mostly fine, if not for Tsukishima. He's in the toughest position out of all of us.' 

'He does seem close with both of them.'

'Oh, _close_ doesn't cover it for Tsukishima and Kageyama.' Suga laughs to himself, all nostalgia and soft spots. Tetsurou knows that laugh; it's the one he reserves for his favourite students. 'They can't stand each other, but they'd also kill for each other without blinking, so it's better not to try them.' 

Tetsurou smiles too, then, swallowing down the stupid thrill of coming to know Tsukishima a percent more, even if it's by proxy. 'I wouldn't think Tsukishima's the type to kill someone over anything.' 

'Over Kageyama? Without a second's hesitation. I don't think I've ever seen a pair of best friends like that. It's terrifying.' 

It does sound terrifying, but then, Tetsurou isn't one to talk. If anything, it reminds him of Koutarou. The way he always jokes about _that tiny metal fuck_ wired into Tetsurou's chest, and then, that one afternoon when he'd told Tetsurou _I haven't slept through the night once since they put that thing in you._ (Koutarou has a fraught relationship with the defibrillator, as if it's a sentient being that could one day decide of its own will to kill Tetsurou through its inaction. Tetsurou has a fraught relationship with that, and, of course, God, who is neither sentient nor a being.)

✶

Tetsurou spends five minutes taking his shoes off, perched on the single step at the entry of his apartment, staring at the cut of the leather under the golden overhead lamp. The grain on the dark wood of the door. The pervading quietness of the place. Then he sighs loud and melodramatic, hauls himself up and sits down just as quickly. Leans back until his back is pressed against the floor, head tipped back to stare at the lamp. He can almost feel its warmth on his face, closes his eyes against the light and throws an arm over them. The hard floor feels good against his worn muscles; he could sleep right here even though he can feel the stretch of his position in his thighs. It's after one in the morning but he's almost buzzing with something that he doesn't know what to name. It's tugging at his lips now and he hasn't even taken his jacket off yet. He has to get a hold of himself.  


This time he doesn't give himself the option to sit back down. Stands in one motion, flings his jacket towards the couch. Shower, change, get into bed. He's turning thirty this year, damn it. 

It persists. He keeps picking at his sweatpants, tugging at the edge of his T-shirt, even in the peaceful dark with only the white-lettered title card of some show he's loaded up on his laptop casting a synthetic glow over the bed. He feels like he used to back in university, come back from a party too early and not done hollering out his enjoyment yet. Too full of goodwill to sleep, and not done talking himself out yet. 

It occurs to him, then, that that's what it is. He runs a finger over the touchpad of the laptop to keep the screen alive, and considers his ceiling with more seriousness than he's considered anything in his life. Picking out invisible constellations in the cement that he can't even see, and willing his other hand not to reach for the phone. What more could he have to say to Tsukishima tonight? They did nothing but talk for hours; under the cherry trees at Chiyoda, sitting on that damp bench and watching the boats mill around the pink-speckled surface of the water. Against the dark walls of the smoking room, Tetsurou leaning against the doorway and out of the range of the smoke while Tsukishima cupped his hands over his cigarette to light it up. The small flame, the orange embers. Outside, finally, in the blue-white of the street and the restless sounds of the spring night. 

What more could he have to say to Tsukishima, and why does texting him feel like too much and not enough all at once? He considers the ceiling; it occurs to him, then, that this is what missing a person feels like.  


'For fuck's sake,' he says, then jumps out of his skin as his phone comes to life on the nightstand. 'Fuck!' 

His stupid, generic ringtone has never sounded so loud as in this moment. _Tsukishima,_ the screen tells him, blank because he doesn't have a picture yet. Yet? What the fuck. God, it's like he's forgotten who he is all over again. Lost the manual. 

'Tsukishima-san,' he manages once he's picked up. And now? 'Did you forget something at the bar?'

'...no,' comes the reply, and Tsukishima sounds just about how Tetsurou feels. Like he's lost the manual too. 'I...' _Missed you too._ 'I took pictures at Ueno, but I forgot to show them to you.' 

Tetsurou doesn't mention that calling is the last thing that'd help with that. Instead, he closes his laptop and pushes it away, and rolls onto his side. Flicks the nightlight on, pushes his head deeper into his pillow. Tries not to smile, and fails. 

'I'd love to see them next time, then,' he says. Flicks the light off. Wonders what he's thinking about, and if it's whatever Tsukishima's thinking about too. 'You never told me what you thought of the special.'

'I said I'm never coming to your bar again.' His voice has returned to normal, maybe a tinge of amusement, just perfect. 'Isn't that feedback enough?' 

'Oh, I don't know. That could mean you loved it so much you want to preserve its memory forever, no?' 

'Wishful thinking.' He hears something rustle, then click, then click again. Wonders where Tsukishima is— does he have a study squared off? He must, with all his equipment. Was that clicking the lighter? No, he'd have been able to tell. 'If you must know, it was absolutely dreadful, but in a good way. The ginger helps.' 

'The ginger does help.' Tetsurou flicks the nightlight on again, and rolls over onto his back. The ceiling is lit up and available for consideration now. He raises an arm towards it, traces a line between two not-stars. It occurs to him, then, that he hasn't thought about his neon red lamp tonight. 'The ginger does help.'


	6. genesis

At the end of May, when the air's still on the right side of stifling but the sun seems to rise higher in the sky by the minute, Shouyou offers an olive branch not meant for Tobio, and Tobio tugs it out of his hands anyway.

They run into him just as he's leaving Kuroo-san's bar, fishing his sunglasses out from the dip of his shirt and putting them on against the glare of the daylight. Tobio almost makes to duck away against a wall, but it's too late; Shouyou's noticed them all and is trying to hide his regret behind a wide grin, waving all casual. His mask, probably to hide from fans, hangs from one ear. It’s stupid and endearing and— hotter than it’s supposed to be. There’s that, too— Shouyou isn’t small anymore. Holds himself differently now. A star, a real one.

'Ah, sorry,' he says. 'I was just telling Kuroo-san I'd better get out of his hair before you guys arrive.' 

_I should've left five minutes earlier, God damn it,_ Tobio hears in his tone, and safe behind his own dark glasses, he tries to read Shouyou's face. Grin still wide but colder now. It can't be pretty to him, the sight of the four of them like this, the same way they were that night. Clearly having spent the morning together, clearly coming to the bar for happy hour together. Tobio's too old now to blame Shouyou for it, even though he spent the first two or three years doing nothing but that. Until he realised that yes, Shouyou was the one to make the choice, but it was because Tobio only left him two options. The option he chose is staring him in the face now; him all alone against the facade of the building, and the four of them on this side of the sun, and such a stupid fucking sense of shame in Tobio's gut that he wishes he could undo the day and stay in bed. 

He can't do that, but he can stay off to the side while the others make small talk. It's smoother this time around, and he knows that's thanks to Kuroo-san in part, who came out sleeves all rolled up and pen still in his hand the moment he saw them all together. He's herding the conversation right now; it'd be funny to watch if it was anyone else. But it isn't; it's Shouyou, white cotton shirt open one button too far, sunglasses black and gold and expensive and perched too low on the bridge of his nose, piercings catching the afternoon sun. It's Tobio, nails digging into his palms, heart in his throat. It hurts to look. He never did stop dyeing his hair. 

But then Kuroo-san stops herding the conversation, and does something impossible instead. He gestures to the bar and cocks his head.

'Hinata, you might as well stay for happy hour,' he says, and all five of them freeze in place. 'I'll get your birthday tab running already.' 

'Birthday tab?' Yamaguchi asks, after a beat of horrible, awkward silence, to have something to ask. Shouyou looks like he just stopped himself from wincing, and then smiles tightly. 

'Shall we go inside?' he asks, as if to them all, when Tobio knows who the question is really for. 

And— he might as well do something useful with the shame. Takes a deep breath. Steps into the bar.

✶

Tobio met Shouyou when they were fifteen. Thinking back to it, he'd never stood a chance. No one does when it comes to Shouyou— the only difference is in the degree to which you're burned for having dared to step so close. Thinking back to it, Tobio was the first of the prizewinners. Still sports the medals in the way his hands have completely forgotten how to do anything other than play keys, or never learned to do anything else in the first place. (Maybe that was it, after all. Shouyou has always had a voice that could speak to a hundred thousand people, and Tobio has only had his instrument, and barely.)

It had been so sunny that day that Tobio had felt a headache coming on, a sore one that'd last all evening. It felt like all that white-yellow light was filling up the corridors like water, nearly empty at this time of the afternoon. Streaming through the open windows, bringing in birdsong and stray leaves. He couldn't really grudge the sun for shining that hard; it did make the day light up like it was a festival of its own. Despite the twinge behind his eyes he was smiling to himself, already thinking about the little sequence of notes that had come to him earlier in the day that he'd kept going in his head, to play it out perfectly to Miwa when he was home. It didn't make much sense yet but it would sooner or later. Music always did.  


It was then that he'd heard it, making his way down an empty hallway and refusing to grudge the sun its light. The squeaking of inexperienced fingers on guitar strings, a note that sounded off, a sheepish laugh. And then, after a second, music. Just like that— pulled from the air _whole_ and ready, the rhythm of the chords swaying under its own weight, a sound willing to be pulled any which way by the air. And then, suddenly, just like that— his voice. 

A little high and rich like honey, and more than anything, honest. Humming in the place of forgotten lyrics, nearly missing the beat to laugh at an error. Before he even reached the classroom that the voice was coming from, Tobio knew its owner lived to sing the way a bird knows it flies the moment it is born. Yes— he was a bird who was so in love with the wingspan he would have in ten years that he forgave the one he had on the day itself. (So in love with who he would be tomorrow, that today meant nothing, and yesterday even less.) 

✶

Shouyou left Tobio when they were twenty. Packed all his things up in a mess of rucksacks and sports bags while Tobio curled into himself on the cold tiled floor of Kei's shitty dorm shower, fully clothed and fully drenched and fully drunk. 

The last time Tobio spoke to him, he was thin, weak, pale, small. Not too thin or weak or pale or small to yell his anger out at Tobio, to grab at his own hair and blink sightlessly at the floor when he realised he wouldn't be winning this one, to shove at Tobio's shoulders, then grab his face, looking up at him with such simple pain that Tobio almost caved, almost gave in to the wild, scared thing inside his chest, almost kissed him. 

Almost, because it wasn't his call to make. It was Shouyou who would do the leaving, and Shouyou who did the leaving, and Shouyou who left. Packed all his things up in a mess of rucksacks and sports bags that he would have to buy better packing for if he wanted them to make it across the Pacific ocean safely. Did planes even fly over the Pacific ocean? 

Tobio asked Kei, who'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor outside the shower stall all afternoon, working on a report on his laptop, refusing to look Tobio in the eye.

_Do planes fly over the Pacific ocean,_ Tobio asked. _Kei, important question. Kei, are you listening? Do planes fly over the Pacific ocean? That's so much water. Kei, he'll drown. Kei._

Kei hadn’t answered right away. Took the world's longest fucking five minutes to put his laptop on the counter, to step into the shower stall, to settle down beside Tobio, sides touching even though Tobio was fully drenched. 

_No, he won't,_ he'd replied. 

✶

Tobio kissed Shouyou when they were seventeen. The first storm of the monsoon had been raging outside, the sky a dirty dark blue even though it was barely six, and the wind making all the windows rattle. It was Shouyou who was trying to get a stubborn window to slide shut, catching the rain on himself and half-laughing, half-cursing, while Tobio stood there, knocked sideways by the sight of him. His white shirt turned translucent where the water had hit him, hair falling of his forehead, dripping on his nose. While Tobio stared, Shouyou lost his grip on the window and fell forward instead, arms going beyond the sill and his entire upper half under the spray now.  


‘Tobio!’ he screamed, helpless with laughter, hauling himself back up. 'Can you put those long arms of yours to use, please! I can't get this thing to move!' 

Tobio couldn't move either. The rain was loud and heavy and Shouyou was dripping wet now, shaking his head to get it out of his hair, running an arm over his forehead, laugh still on his lips as he tried to put on an angry face. He was getting the floor wet, and someone had to close that window, but it wouldn't be Tobio because Tobio couldn't move, oh, he was in love. 

He was in love with Shouyou, who came so easily when he called. Who held his wrist with bare string-worn fingertips, leading him here, pushing him there, oh, making him smile. Singing in every single one of Tobio's silences, singing in his silences. Draping himself over Tobio's shoulders while he played, heavy and light all at once like the wingspan of tomorrow. Not strong enough to close the stubborn window, not a single sense of fulcrum, but still a largeness in his movements, spitting and sparkling and high-reaching like an unattended fire.

'Turn around,' he said, and Shouyou frowned. 'I'm serious. Look away from me. Just turn around.' 

'Okay, okay, you weirdo. Can you just get the window before Tsukki kills us for getting the floor wet—' 

Tobio closed the window. Made his way over to it in three strides and yanked at the frame, slammed it into place, fixed the latch. Leaned his forehead against it and stared out at the lawn, grass gone dark green under the water, the torrent not letting up for a second. How would they get home? What was Tobio going to do? (Thinking back to it, what else could he have done? Resist? Who in that world, or this one, had ever been allowed to resist Hinata Shouyou?)

Hands on his shoulders, friendly, shaking him. 'What's wrong with you? Are you coming down with something? Because—' 

Tobio turned around, and they were seventeen years old, and he took Shouyou's stupid wet face in his hands, and distance itself was ashamed for having been so stubborn. Rearranged itself between them and the world, so that those who sought Shouyou would find Tobio first. Tobio held his stupid wet face in his hands, and looked down at him with such simple love, that even Shouyou— who jumped from dream to dream to feeling in the arc of a firework— couldn’t look away. 

'I feel like I could write a really gross love song right now,' Shouyou said, but his voice was— low, honey, like the first time Tobio had heard him. Low with fondness for Tobio's terrible decisions. All of his terrible decisions. 'Tobio, if you don't kiss me _right now,_ I'll never sing again. I really won't. I'll never speak to you again, I swear—'

✶

Shouyou sang to Tobio when they were sixteen. And then for years after that. 

They'd already seen Suga-san and the other seniors off, and Kei and Tobio had already declared themselves mortal enemies that maybe couldn't live without each other. Yamaguchi had already told himself four times that he'd never stand a chance with Yachi Hitoka who handled the club's management. 

Shouyou had already shot up a little, just enough for it to be easier for Tobio to meet his ridiculous gaze that day as he perched himself on the edge of a desk, holding his worn guitar so easily. His gaze that day, full of something so warm and sure of itself it made Tobio's lungs forget how to breathe. 

_It's a silly name,_ he'd said, ducking his head, then looking up just as quick. _“And Now Here”. That's what it's called. Like— “and now here you are”, you know?_

That day Tobio stared at the table all through dinner, not eating a bite despite his mother's jokes about blushing and lovesickness and youth, and leaving for the garden the moment he was excused. Sat there in the grass staring up at the sky, replaying the song in his head, over and over, over the clamouring of the cicadas and the roar of his own blood in his ears. Replayed the song over and over until the lyrics didn't make sense anymore, not when he thought of the way Shouyou had sung them to him directly, as if they were having a conversation. The way Shouyou had leaned back after, his eyes alight with wait. 

✶

If Shouyou had been sitting on the same side of the table as him, he would've hated it, wanted him to sit anywhere else. And now that he's sitting across from him, he hates it, wants him to sit anywhere else. Wants to be anywhere else. Regrets his stupid impulsive decision when he could very well have told everyone he has a call to make, or a train to catch, anything in the fucking world other than settling into the soft leather of the seat, back pressed against the cool damp-smelling bricks of the wall. It's soothing against the back of his head, something to think about while he tries not to think about how close their feet are under the table. How, a decade ago, that would've led to a bout of stomping and shin-kicking immediately, just because. Just because.

He focuses on how the bricks feel against the back of his head as Shouyou explains why he was here in the first place. Wants to reserve the bar for his birthday next month, thinks it's the perfect place to turn twenty-eight in, and he wants his friends to try the house special because it's going to be right up their alley, and he's so sick of getting his ass kicked in the same club in Shinjuku every year. 

Then, and Tobio doesn't know if it's a real decision or one made under pressure, Shouyou looks at all of them, swallowing, jaw tight again. Bites his lower lip, makes a decision, either a real one or one he wishes he didn't have to make, and smiles. It's tight, too, but not with coldness, with something else. Fear.

'And, well,' he says, 'I was actually thinking— it's been years since we last spent my birthday together. I mean, when was it? Weren't you guys first-years still?' 

They were. Tobio remembers it vividly; it was the last time he ever got to see that silly way Shouyou had of being ecstatic over every single present he got, including the gag gifts. They'd gone to a karaoke bar, a tradition at the time. Shouyou had a stupidly huge pair of neon sunglasses balanced on his head, each lens large enough to cover his face, and zebra print leggings under his T-shirt. He was already drunk at nine, giggly and warm and clinging to Tobio like a child, playing with his fingers, pressing clumsy wet kisses to his cheek in between lines, the microphone catching the sound of it. Yamaguchi and Kei had retaliated, making exaggerated smooching noises into their own microphones, which had driven Shouyou hysterical. 

Tobio remembers. 

And— maybe it's because he remembers so fucking vividly that he opens his mouth for the first time since they saw each other today, and says, 'Yeah, it's been a while.' 

Shouyou turns to look at him— also for the first time today— and the question is clear on his dumbstruck face. _Did you just speak to me,_ he's screaming with the slight parting of his lips. And— did Tobio? Was he talking to the air? He wasn't, but he shouldn't have spoken at all. He shouldn't even be here, but he is, and— 

'Yeah, it has,' Shouyou replies. Looks at Tobio a beat too long before turning away, smile back in place. 'Anyway, how about it? I mean, if you already have plans—' 

'Don't be stupid,' Kei cuts in, and despite himself Tobio smiles. Had almost forgotten that there are others at this table to whom Hinata Shouyou means something. 'We'll be there.' 

'Of course we will,' Yamaguchi echoes, and Shouyou deflates. So relieved, it kills Tobio a little. 'Besides, it's been a while since I embarrassed myself at karaoke.' 

Tobio senses a gaze on him, looks up, across the room. Behind the counter the young-looking bartender is nodding to the music while cleaning the sink, but from beside him, Kuroo-san is looking right at Tobio. Doesn't stop even when Tobio catches his eye, flashes him a grin instead, before turning away. 

How much does he know? Anyone who comes within a metre of Tobio and Shouyou can tell to let sleeping dogs lie. How much did Shouyou tell him, for him to invite them all in together, to look at Tobio like that? Does Shouyou have no _before_ and _after,_ then, can he still talk about Tobio without it tearing at his throat? Explain it away, all sheepish? Sit here and clearly invite everyone but Tobio? 

Something bitter rises in his throat. Shouyou could've done better. He could've left, could've met up with the other three later— God knows that's how it's been happening all these years. Is he talking to the air right now, too? Well, that's fair game, then. Whatever's in the air is fair game, up, suspended, for whoever wants to grab it. 

'No plans either,' Tobio says, careful, cool. Clenches his jaw even as he _feels_ them all look at him slowly, feels the freezing silence that suddenly drops over the table. _Damn you all,_ he thinks, vicious, for a second. But before the shame can rush in he tilts his chin up, staring at the damp rings of condensation on the strokes of the wood, but staring back at them all too as best he can. 

Then: 

'Refills,' the bartender chirps merrily, and Tobio hadn't even noticed him coming to stand behind Yachi. 'What can I get you, folks?' 

_Help,_ Tobio thinks, smiles blandly at him.

✶

Tobio played to Shouyou when they were sixteen. And then for years after that. 

It had been a year since that sequence of notes had lilted into his head on that sunny afternoon, when he'd stepped into the empty classroom where Shouyou, fifteen and fragile, was singing to the trio that would one day end up being their whole world. (Thinking back to it, when has Shouyou ever belonged to one single person?) A year later, the only fitting reply he could think of to Shouyou saying _and now here you are_ was sewing that sequence of notes into a careful whole, using every bit of instinct God had given him, and every bit of training the world had given him, to make it something worth Shouyou's while. (That was it, maybe, too: Shouyou was raw feeling like the welling of blood on a split lip, and Tobio was practiced perfection, even when it came to this. Especially when it came to this.) 

Seven in the evening, already pitch dark outside in the October sky, Shouyou curled up against the wall at the head of Tobio's bed, looking at the keyboard with something almost like fear. Tobio remembers thinking _one day, a real piano, a hundred thousand people, and only you. Only you._

But that day, the keyboard and the blanket around Shouyou's shoulders and the winter night made do. Thinking back to it, Tobio was so in love with who Shouyou was on that day itself, that tomorrow, in its uncertainty, seemed like the most unfair thing in the world.

✶

Shouyou made love to Tobio when they were nineteen. The heater folding the air around them into waves that trembled in Tobio's vision as Shouyou sank into him, brow furrowed, hands warm and gentle on his hipbones. Tuning the sinews of Tobio's heart and coaxing music out of his throat in the quiet of the evening. Low notes on his back, high notes on his neck. The way Shouyou would always whisper like a thief, then go quiet, as if he had discovered something no one knew the existence of, and he wouldn’t let the world have it. (Whoever sought Tobio would have found Shouyou first.)  


Later, when he finally put his night's work away— the conservatory waited for no one, least of all students who refused to learn to read score— and made his way back to the bed, something stopped him from lying down. The sight of Shouyou curled on his side, aimlessly scrolling through what looked like comments on his latest upload, smile on his face but eyes unfocused. Exhausted. Shadows under them, too, that Tobio had been seeing more and more. Skin warm in the golden glow of the nightlight. Breaths so slow it should hurt. 

Tobio pried the phone out of his hands, set it aside. Stroked Shouyou's hair off his forehead as he rolled onto his back to look up, sleepy, content, his. 

'Hey,' Tobio whispered. 'Next time I'll come up to Karumai, okay? It's not fair that you have to come down to Tokyo every time.' 

Shouyou had smiled tiredly up at him that night, reaching out clumsily to put a hand on his jaw. Thumb stroking at his lower lip, light like air. 

'It's fine, right? What you're doing here is more important. Besides, trains are great places to write music. The snow's everywhere now. Makes me think of you.' 

'Everything makes you think of me.' 

'Doesn't it? I miss you all the time. Even when I'm here. Especially when I'm here. I'm going to pack myself into your bag starting tomorrow. You’ll just have to take me everywhere you go.' 

Shouyou had laughed at his own joke, that night, and thinking back to it, he'd packed his own bags not even a year later. Tight enough to make it across the Pacific ocean. But that night he'd laughed as if Tobio was the one who was running ahead, feet slipping on piano keys as he stumbled forward towards the light. He'd laughed as if all he could do was chase after Tobio, and it had lodged into a funny little nook in Tobio's chest and made tears rise to his eyes, mouth filling with salt. 

'I love you,' he'd said, voice thick with soulburn. 'You stupid, stupid menace.'

'Mean! Tobio! See if I pack myself into your bag now!' 

'Shut up. I love you. Shut up, Shouyou, God.'

✶

They opened up a great crack in the earth under them when they were eighteen. So horribly in love that they could hardly think of anything else the summer before Tobio left for the conservatory, for Tokyo.  


If he had known, he would've stopped time, that perfect summer. Ripped up that acceptance letter, stayed behind with Shouyou, done everything he could in the world to keep Shouyou by his side. To make it easier for him. To do what it took to stop the hurtling everforward motion of things so that Tokyo would never happen, so that Shouyou's two exhausting side jobs wouldn't happen, so that the channel where he uploaded covers of songs— each one ten fucking times better than the original— wouldn't exist, so Tobio would never touch a real, expensive piano and have it hook him in from the first second, so that they would always be eighteen and not a day older, the sun in the sky and the air thick with heat, the only song the chant of the cicadas. 

That perfect summer. Hounding Yamaguchi's mother for her milk jelly, Tobio still not managing to win a single hand of cards against Kei, them putting on layers and layers of clothes and makeup for Yachi's university application portfolio. Shouyou and Tobio and Tobio and Shouyou, so that whoever looked for one would find the other first, lying flat on the grass, arm stretched out, hand stretched out, fingers stretching to meet fingers. 

Not for a second had Shouyou faltered when Tobio told him about Tokyo; he was only smiles, only joy, sticking to the skin. So fond of Tobio's terrible decisions, all of Tobio's terrible decisions. Even years later, three years later when he would leave, separating Tobio from own self when he looked up at him and begged to leave while begging to stay; even seven years later, when Tobio heard the first song of his second album and sobbed on the kitchen floor for five hours. _Sweetheart, now tell me what you gained from this._

_Sweetheart, now tell me what you gained from this._

Tobio had sobbed on the kitchen floor for five hours, at the ringing fondness of Shouyou's voice laid over the chords of his guitar, at the hardness of the kitchen floor, at the hurtling everforward motion of things. Time stopped then, seven years too late, in that moment of regret so keen it was its own act of God. Then started again, taking off like a cruel bird. Taking off, like Shouyou.

✶

This time, when Shouyou catches up to him, it's not dark outside. The sun has barely even started to set, but it's at the perfect angle to light up everything about Shouyou that Tobio doesn't want to see. This time, when Shouyou looks up at him, it's not neutral or blank or adult-like. Shouyou isn't being an adult right now, which feels good to see.

'Hey,' he says, and God, do they have to be curt like that now? Tobio would rather he screamed. 'About earlier. You know you don't have to—' 

'I don't have plans,' Tobio repeats, hopes that hiding his eyes behind his sunglasses is enough. 'Unless you want me to make other plans.' 

Shouyou stares at him, then looks away, huffs in bitter disbelief, eyes cold. 'Wow. Kageyama, you do know that this is _my_ birthday, right? It's me. Are you sure you don't have other plans?' 

Does Tobio have other plans? He usually does. Squares away chores and paperwork and everything other than music for June 21, summer solstice, the longest, longest, _longest_ fucking day of the year. Does every single thing he can to make the endless hours of sunlight pass, and then opens a bottle, every year, for the short night, to forget what the world gave to him on that solstice twenty-one, twenty-four, twenty-six years ago. 

Yeah, Tobio usually has plans. But he doesn't want to follow them this year. Not this year. 

'It depends,' he replies. 'Am I still invited?' 

Shouyou looks up at him forever. Or at least until the sun, ashamed of the distance between them, ducks away against a wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sweetheart, now tell me what you gained from this.](https://open.spotify.com/track/6cUOiOY5qh2FpIQWIYAd2h?si=QJP_jM1QT1qbvqboOVYPGg)


	7. june 15, 5:48 PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning for first scene (and in general for the rest of the chapter):** discussion of kuroo's cardiac arrest. the scene isn’t skippable, so i don’t want anyone to go in unwarned. there is no explicit description, but lots of allusions to what happened. on a similar note, there are brief discussions of grief and different grieving processes, but this is a lighter warning in case the phrases i use set off a thought spiral that you might not currently be up for. 
> 
> also: KENMA PLAYS OVERWATCH ON CONSOLE IN THIS SCENE. I WAS TOLD 6 TIMES THAT THIS IS TERRIBLE, SO I AM KEEPING IT IN OUT OF SPITE. LET KENMA PLAY OVERWATCH ON CONSOLE. also yes i confirmed that if you’re stubborn enough about it, you can create a single player custom game where it’s just you vs the AI, so kenma is allowed to pause his game okay.

Tetsurou has a fraught relationship with God in that he didn't see any when he died. But he still remembers Koutarou whispering it over and over into the needle-punctured crook of his elbow, warm, ticklish tears trailing onto his skin. _Thank God, thank God, thank God._

Tetsurou was running on empty. It would be two, three days before he could actually say words again, but he'd spent all of them trying to remember his last moments, without any success. The more he tried to think about it the more it slipped from his grasp, like trying to recall a dream. He couldn't even remember if it was day or night when his knees gave way to the weight of his faulty heart; the only thing that came to mind was Kenma's face when he'd heard Tetsurou whisper _guys, wait, I._ Couldn't remember who else was there, where he was, what he was doing.  


It had taken over a year to get one of them to tell him, they were all so loathe to talk about it. Kenma still refuses, going stone-still the moment it's brought up even obliquely, shutting himself off from the conversation. Tetsurou's learned not to push; learned that this isn't as entirely about him as one would think. It's almost like he got the easy part of the deal, or would have, if not-God hadn't decided that it wasn't time yet without so much as pausing to ask for Tetsurou's opinion. 

**Kenma [14:03]  
** get coke from the kitchen on your way

'Sure thing, your highness,’ Tetsurou calls as he nudges the door shut with his foot. The blistering sun is splitting the year in half, and there is nothing he hates as much as the dry heat of June. The way it turns the inside of the car into a leather-smelling oven, the constant glare. He's glad to be inside, already feeling the cool blast of the aircon as he puts his shoes away and heads to the kitchen. He grabs two cans of Coke from Kenma's infinite night supply, presses one to his forehead for a second before heading back out. 

Predictably, Kenma's cross-legged at the foot of the bed, eyes narrowed at the flatscreen on the opposite wall as his nimble thumbs blur over the remote. Tetsurou flops across the bed with a sigh as Symmetra does something complicated-looking against the AI, speakers on full blast letting him know just how badass whatever she just did was. It's one of Kenma's custom games, which is how Tetsurou knows he's blowing off steam from whatever last-minute work was dumped on him over the weekend. Sees it on his face when he exits to the lobby and turns around to reach for the can being handed to him. 

'Nekomata at it again?' Tetsurou asks mildly, and Kenma takes a long swig in lieu of responding. 'Fine, be like that.' 

It must've been hectic, for him to miss Suga's birthday with only a text to explain. Kenma loathes any and all loud gatherings but there are some people he'll make an exception for, and Suga is always on everyone's exception list, except Daichi's, which actually speaks more volumes about how head over heels he is for Suga than anything ever will— for him, Suga is the rule to which no exceptions exist. If Tetsurou had to explain the verity of them to someone else, that's how he'd put it. 

'Are you drinking enough water?' Kenma asks then, tapping Tetsurou's temple with the cold edge of his already-empty can. 'It's getting hot now.' 

'I should be asking you that. Have you even slept this weekend?' 

'Twelve full hours.' He tosses the can to the bin, perfect arc, before finally lying down too, stretching his wrists out, curling his fingers. 'Now, what are you doing here on a Monday morning?' 

Tetsurou raises himself up on an elbow, takes a long swig in lieu of responding. 

✶

Last Thursday, they had to skip their walk because Tsukishima was held up at his office, trying to get one software to work with the samples of another, or something— Tetsurou couldn't pay much attention to his excuse since it followed the words _would you like to come to the office instead,_ an invitation that had filled his head with white noise for a second. As much because he was being allowed another step into Tsukishima's world— into music— as because it was yet another reminder that this had stopped really being about the walks a while ago. 

(Even though the walks have become the sort of anchor to Tetsurou's life that he had never really expected them to be— even though he's getting so much better at not only isolating sounds, but at letting them take him over, calm the constant, sickening hum of tinnitus that lives in the back of his head, like he's forever suspended in the last moments that his brain refuses to let him remember fully— even though he knows he'll keep looking for sounds in the world years from now whether Tsukishima is still walking beside him in the silence or not, it's been a while since they both started looking for something else, something closer to their hands than their hearing.)

Tsukishima's office was nondescript enough that Tetsurou allowed it only a spare glance, saving all his attention for the frazzled associate professor behind the desk, who only pulled his headphones down to his neck long enough to greet Tetsurou with an _I'm sorry, I'll just be a moment_ and the wave of a hand towards the chairs. Tetsurou, amused and a little too partial for his own taste, had settled into one of them and only pretended to be interested in his phone for a minute before putting it away to stare at Tsukishima.

Behind him, the door was doing only a halfway-decent job of blocking out the sounds of the hallway; there was the lively chatter of students finishing up their day's classes and deciding where to go for the weekend, the rumble of janitors rolling cleaning carts from one end to another, the unmistakeable thump of someone tripping, and laughter. But louder than it all was the tapping of Tsukishima's fingertips on the two different keyboards before him, his little sigh, the compulsive way he reached for his lighter, flicked it, then put it back— another tell that Tetsurou learned without realising. Leaning back in the chair, looking at Tsukishima do what he loved best— observe, analyse, evaluate, interpret; chronicle, chronicle, chronicle— it occurred to Tetsurou that his ability to shut things down was only as useful as the timing of his intuition. 

He'd blown it. (He's blown it.)

Leaning back in the chair, staring at Tsukishima, Tetsurou had imagined seven different ways to confess. _I do want to kiss you,_ said number three, while number five was more authentic, ran along the lines of _could this work if you were the riddle and I was the seeker instead,_ and number seven was a moment from the week before, when, over the bubbling of a fountain, Tsukishima had sung a couple of lines from an old song to Tetsurou to remind him of its tune. Every confession was perfect because it both existed and didn't in that moment of him watching Tsukishima adjust his headphones, lean forward to squint at the screen, lean back. Then, as if listening in, looking up and locking eyes with Tetsurou in question. 

Tetsurou smiled. He'd blown it.

Still, Tsukishima had kept him waiting three minutes longer, holding up a finger and mouthing _sorry_ again, then starting up a flurry of typing so fast it sounded like rainfall on the desk. All the while the sun coming in from the window painting the office in dusty earthy colours; browns and deep reds, gold on the edges of Tsukishima's glasses as he finally set the headphones aside with a great exhale, and leaned forward. 

'I'm sorry,' he said a third time, and Tetsurou shook his head, overcome with— affection. There was something about Tsukishima that day, in his element, something about how young his summer clothes made him look, bare arms pale against the desk, long hair so boyish. It filled Tetsurou with a longing not unlike what he felt for his own youth. He had been younger than Tsukishima, after all, when it vanished. 'This is hardly a peaceful walk.'

'Don't be,' he said, cleared his throat. It felt a little like he was meeting Tsukishima for the first time again; chasing his regard, then running from it. 'It's still something, I've archived like four different sounds since I came in.' 

Tsukishima smiled, then, shaking his head as he pushed his laptop aside. 'I know I keep saying it's a deliberate exercise, but you don't have to turn it into a competition against yourself, you know.' 

'Wait.' Tetsurou leaned forward, put on a shocked face. 'You're telling me there isn't a trophy at the end of all this?'

'If there was, what would you want it to say, anyway? _Congratulations, you now know how to listen?_ ’ 

'That's actually pretty reasonable,' he replied, feeling the words come up before he could stop them. 'I did get one of those badges after my great resurrection. _Congratulations, you can now form full sentences._ '

He wouldn’t even need retrospect to know that it had been the wrongest thing in the world to say; he'd already seen it the moment the words left his lips, the way Tsukishima dropped the smile, blinked at him, then stood up abruptly. Made his way over to the door while Tetsurou passed a hand over his eyes, _fucking great,_ and never had the click of a lock sounded so loud. 

He'd only dared to turn around when he didn't hear any further movement; sure enough, Tsukishima was leaning against the closed door, arms crossed, the barest hint of impatience on his face. 

'You need to tell me the truth,' he said, voice calm but unsure enough for Tetsurou to catch it. 'Please.'  


'What truth?' 

'You know what truth.' He stepped forward, then, thinking better of it, stepped back. 'Fortune 500. Bar owner. It's been months, Kuroo-san, and I can't even _begin_ to guess why you talk the way you do. What did you do? Change your name? Change cities? None of it makes sense.' 

Tetsurou smiled despite the thorns in his throat. 'And you hate it when things don't make sense.' 

'You know I do. Just— why?' 

There it was, _why are you like this._ It did get to the best of them. (It does get to the best of them.)

'That's an awfully rude question to ask, Tsukishima.'

✶

Kenma blinks at him, face blank with incredulity. 'You...you _left his office._ ' 

Tetsurou glares at him, finishes the last of his Coke, wishes he could summon another one from the kitchen. 'Hey, fuck you. I did my best.' 

'No, Kuro. For a normal person, doing one's best would mean that they actually sat down and explained themselves to Tsukishima. Even for _you,_ doing your best would mean that you found something charming to say, then changed the topic, then wrote Tsukishima off forever. In neither situation does doing your best mean saying _that's rude,_ and then _leaving his office._ ' 

'Okay, don't make it sound like I just up and left his office. I _did_ tell him I was sorry and that I'd be back! He fully supported my leaving the office!' 

‘Amazing.’ Kenma pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he wishes he was terraforming on _Animal Crossing_ right now. (Not that he can; his Switch is with Tetsurou. On weekends, Kenma isn't allowed to play games that don’t end.) 'What are you doing, Kuro?' 

'That's what I've come to ask,' Tetsurou says, laughs drily. 'What _am_ I doing?' 

He could've asked Koutarou this, or Daichi. But among all the different relationships that they have with the fact that Tetsurou decided to drop dead in front of them, Kenma's is perhaps the most simple. Because he never made an affair out of it, never once said _thank God,_ never spoke to anyone about it, least of all Tetsurou himself. Almost as if he refused to share, like back when they were five and six, and he was afraid every new kid Tetsurou met was a thief come to steal him away. 

No, there's no one who could be more clear about this, no one else who is so singularly interested in Tetsurou's survival that it’s rearranged his entire worldview and shifted what it means to be objective. (For Kenma, Tetsurou is the rule to which there are no exceptions. Least of all Tetsurou himself.)

'Why him?' Kenma asks. 

Tetsurou takes a deep breath, lowers himself back down, considers the ceiling. 

Why anyone at all, when he was so determined not to let that happen that he honed his entire being into something that alerted others that it wasn't worth the effort? Why Tsukishima Kei?

'I really want to start with an anecdote,' he says. Kenma snorts. 'You know, like, _remember when we were ten years old and I broke my tooth and thought I'd never be able to eat candy again,_ or something, and then circle it back to why Tsukishima assured me that I definitely could and would eat candy again, so I decided that I could give falling in love a try.'  


Why Tsukishima Kei?

'I didn't decide,' he whispers. 'That's the thing. Isn't that the _why_ of it? That I don't know.' That first visual of Tsukishima in the winter sun, coat fluttering in the breeze, the edges of him so soft and sharp at the same time, a form that by no means stood out, but that carved a place into the beauty of the world by means of its own quietness. Chronicle, chronicle, chronicle. How, every once in a while, he'll send over a piece played on some instrument Tetsurou hasn't even heard of but that sounds like it was forged in heaven. How he listens when Tetsurou lists off all the silly, loud, boring sounds he drew up an inventory of while walking. _Did you hear that teenager freestyling? He spoke so fast! Oh, and the fucking birds in that tree over there. What horrible little things._ How he's never asked a question Tetsurou felt the need to run from, until he did three days ago. 

Isn't that the _why_ of it? That it doesn't matter that Tetsurou honed himself into a warning, a self-fulfilling prophecy of life and death and the divertissement inbetween, because the _why_ of it has nothing to do with how Tsukishima is with him _,_ but with how Tsukishima _is_. Tetsurou, who spent three years perfecting the art of keeping seekers at bay, forgot to consider the possibility that he might someday be one himself. And now, does he reach out? Does he take it, a deliberate exercise? 

Why Tsukishima Kei? Because when Tetsurou was at the door, a pit in his stomach and thorns in his throat, Tsukishima had called out his name.

_If you never come back, I won't regret it,_ he'd said, headphones already around his neck, eyes trained on his screen. _I refuse to regret meeting you, Kuroo-san. Do me the same kindness. I refuse to have been a waste of your time. Don't ever think, no matter what you decide, that you were a waste of mine._

Tetsurou turns to look at Kenma, finds him fiddling with his— no, Tetsurou's phone. 'What are you doing?' 

'I'm pulling up his contact,' Kenma replies. 'So that you can call him and get out of my apartment right now.'

✶

The sun is splitting the year in half, glaring down from the sky and impossible to hide from, but Tsukishima still finds them a hideaway. A place filled with blissful green shade so cool on Tetsurou's skin that he could stay here forever. The bench they're on is more wear than wood; no one comes here. Only the sweet faint chirping of young birds, the rustling of leaves, Tetsurou's troublemaker heart in his chest. 

No one's skilled at waiting the way Tsukishima is. He doesn't throw the weight of his glance on Tetsurou, doesn't pretend to be busy with his phone either. Just leans against the back of the bench, hands in his pockets, loose blue shirt sleeves rolled up. Stares into the green canopy of a tree Tetsurou cannot identify, letting its coloured shade spill the kaleidoscope of summer on his upturned face. That is Tsukishima; as patient as nature itself. 

Tetsurou exhales, turns to press his side to the back of the bench. The wood might end up staining his own shirt, but he doesn't care; Tsukishima's profile is worth it. The way Tetsurou can see him swallow before turning to face him, eyes clear and focused and listening. He is listening. 

The seven confessions disappear into the air; half-truths, rootless, cacophonous. Useless, if he doesn't speak now, and say what he's never said to a new person before. He's had all day to think of the words, find a way to put them that could satisfy him, but there isn't any. He can only hope that Tsukishima knows how to filter and parse what Tetsurou says the way he does with the music he works on. 

'I was twenty-five,' Tetsurou says, and already his head feels heavy, like he's about to faint. His lips feel numb. How could this happen to him? How could this have happened to him? 'Sorry, I.' 

'Take all evening,' Tsukishima says quietly. 'Stop here if you want.'

Tetsurou doesn't want to stop. Takes a deep breath, laughs a little harshly; it'd be hilarious if the thing set off again from the sheer stress of talking about it. He's willing to take the risk.

'I wear a defibrillator,' he says, pats his shirt above the surgery scar that he usually pretends isn't on his body. Tsukishima's eyes go to the motion of his hand, throat visibly going tight. Tetsurou is _never_ going to do this again. 'Well, I wear one _now._ If I had it then, I would've survived.' 

Tsukishima looks like he's trying with all his control not to swear, or move, or even breathe. His entire body is taut lines, hands tight on his thighs, eyes strained. No, Tetsurou is never going to do this to someone again. 

'You,' Tsukishima whispers, then takes a deep breath. Doesn't continue, because who can say the words _you died_ without fear clutching at their tongue? No one ever says it. His father says _when you were sick,_ Koutarou says _when you were away,_ Daichi says _back then._ No, Tetsurou's the only one who says it, cavalier and charming and casual, because he can hide safe behind the knowledge that no one new will believe him. Except Tsukishima is sitting in front of him, struck wordless, and he has to speak now without smiling.

'I was dead for six minutes,' he says, and a minuscule part of Tsukishima's listening seems to collapse in on itself. The tenseness leaves his shoulders, replaced by— something number-looking. 'It doesn't sound that long, but...coma for two days. Then the great indie awakening, you know? Except there was no cool music or pan shots. Just...'

Just the absurdly painful learning of how to be a mind inside a body again. Just Akaashi, waiting for Koutarou to finally fall asleep before sitting carefully on the chair beside the bed, looking down at Tetsurou blankly, and then bursting into tears. Just Tetsurou wondering who made him inflict himself on everybody without pausing to ask for his opinion. 

He's never going to do that to somebody again, except he just did. And it's too late to shut things down, but the year is long. The bar, the walks, the wedding. They have more than enough time to let this fade into the air like the confessions did, and—

'Kuroo-san, can I do something weird?' 

Tetsurou blinks, completely startled. 'Yeah?' 

'Can I hold your hand?' 

He actually looks up at that to see if this is Tsukishima's idea of a joke— which, Tetsurou would honestly be more impressed than offended— but it isn't. His lips are still parted around the question, which is how Tetsurou can see the slight tremble to them. The sun is splitting the year in half on his face. He is listening.

Tetsurou holds out his hand. Tsukishima takes it, long slender fingers curling around his own for a second, then matching space to bone and lacing them together. His skin is soft. His palm is cool. The birds, the leaves, the troublemaker heart. 

'Six minutes is a very long time,' Tsukishima says to their joined hands. 'That's like a hundred indie awakenings rolled into one.' 

Tetsurou laughs out loud at that, harder when he sees the hint of a smile on Tsukishima's lips too. In a moment the heaviness of the air lifts, the risk taken, the ordeal survived. _I would've survived_ is wrong; Tetsurou did survive. He survives every day that the neon red lamp doesn't light up. 

'It _is_ a long time,' he replies. 'I just wish life had become a hundred times more beautiful to make up for it.' 

'Oh, I hope we won't wait for life to turn beautiful, Kuroo-san. Now that would be a waste of our time.' 

_We._

Tetsurou closes his eyes and leans his head on his own shoulder. Doesn't let go of the hand that has somehow found a way to his. Tries to think of something funny to say, then comes up with it, and laughs.

'Well, you know what they say,' he finally replies. 'You only live twice.'

There is a beat of silence, then the sound of Tsukishima's jeans against the bench as he shifts forward, and then the sting of a finger-flick on his temple. He yelps and opens his eyes, lifts his head; Tsukishima is glaring at him with all his might, but it's only working halfway. It occurs to Tetsurou that none of this was a confession, but he'll put the onus of that one on Tsukishima. He's all confessed out.

'I will put you in detention for that one,' Tsukishima says, voice so close to Tetsurou's ears that he has to pull a laugh out of it.

'Ooh, _professor,_ ' he croons back, and gets his laugh. Wonders why Tsukishima wastes his time running after all those old songs when the oldest one is within reach.


	8. nightbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **note:** this chapter features a past relationship and unrequited love, if this makes you uncomfortable. again, it’s not skippable, but i want to give you the option to back out.

The bar is crowded, because of course it is. The party hits Tobio in the face the moment he steps through the entrance. The chemical smell of alcohol and air fresheners, respite from the stuffy heat of the night. The music, loud and lyrical the way the birthday boy apparently still likes it. Easy to sing along to, easy to enjoy. Tobio hears Kei huff a laugh as they make their way further in, not recognising a face until they get to the bar and see the young bartender— Inuoka, right— pleasing the crowd with his skills. Tobio jumps a little as he lights a section of the counter on fire, everything glowing orange for a second before dying down just as quick.  


'Oh, this is a party all right,' Kei mutters. 'I'm just glad there's still place to sit. Did Yachi text you back?' 

'Not yet,' Tobio replies, settling on a free stool while Kei looks over his shoulder, notices Kuroo-san, then pretends not to notice Kuroo-san. 'For fuck's sake. Go say hi.' 

'There will be no need for that.' His own biggest enemy, Kei's eyes follow Kuroo-san as he ducks behind the counter again and resurfaces with two bottles in each hand. 'Anyway, don't leave without telling me, all right? I can't see you home, but—'

'Yeah, I know.' He says nothing more; Kei neither. While they'd usually go at each other's throats at the slightest opportunity, there's been a wave of silence after Tobio's decision to come to the party, which means that Kei doesn't know what the hell is on Tobio's mind. It isn't often that that happens, in either direction. Making the active choice to wrap the wires of your brain around someone else's will do that to you, especially when the brain in question is Tsukishima Kei, who already makes an unofficial career out of reading people to filth. 

Kei, his own biggest enemy, steps away and closer to where Kuroo-san is. The bar is crowded, and the party is loud. The green neon letters spelling out the bar's name light up the brick walls in strange half-colours, making everyone look ten times more like strangers than they already are. Tobio looks around almost absently, not sure if he's trying to find his target or run from it, taking in the details of the people Shouyou surrounds himself with now. Most of them look like they're from the music scene. It's not so much about their appearance— though Tobio counts more than five people in oversized T-shirts and glasses and illegal-looking shoes— as their way of holding themselves. Easy grips around their glasses, all of them sectioned off in groups of their own even though he's sure everyone knows everyone. But he can't tell how close they are to Shouyou just by looking at them— Shouyou's always been the kind of person to play favourites with anyone, so that no one knows where they stand with him. He knows Kei would scoff at such a judgement coming from Tobio of all people, but it's not funny, not when it's one of the reasons Tobio— one of the reasons.

Not when one of the last things Shouyou said to him, voice too maimed to be loud anymore, was _how could you ever think that this isn't for you and me? Everything is for you and me. Everything._

'You came.' 

Every sound dies away. Tobio turns around, and comes face to face with him. Does he look twenty-eight now? What age does he look like, what age should Tobio give him? Hair swept back, a dazzling sheen of sweat on his collarbones, the neck of his shirt so low Tobio can see the beginnings of his ribs. The dip of his sternum, the rise and fall of his chest giving him away despite the calm tone of that _you came._ Then he looks Shouyou in the eyes, and wills his own chest not to cave in. 

'I did,' he answers. His throat is dry. 'Happy birthday.' 

Shouyou doesn't reply, only looks at him in that disconcerting way he has that's gotten even worse over all these years that Tobio has had to lose immunity to it. (Not that he was ever immune; at fifteen it made him stammer and forget his words; at seventeen it made him helpless with heat; at nineteen he was sick with love for those eyes, and almost scared to accept that they were, too, for him.) God, what is he doing here? How could they ever be acquaintances again, what was he hoping to get out of this? 

_Now tell me what you gained from this._

Then Shouyou— smiles. Lowers his gaze, lashes so dark against his golden skin. 'Stubborn as ever. Get a drink, everything's on my tab.' 

Just like that, he's gone, walking backwards and looking at Tobio with that little smile until he disappears into the arms of someone or the other who probably has no idea how lucky they are. Tobio stares at the space where Shouyou was standing just seconds ago, then turns away.

✶

Well past ten when Yachi and Yamaguchi have finally arrived and found a place for all four for of them upstairs, Tobio decides it's safe enough to go back downstairs and grab a real drink for himself. He's been nursing the same strawberry juice since the start of the evening, but it's a small bar, and Shouyou keeps flitting everywhere like a butterfly, holding six different conversations at once and none of them with Tobio. He's come by to their table thrice already, each time tipsier and tipsier, and the last time he left, he lost his footing, grabbed onto Tobio's shoulders to steady himself, then took his hands back as if burned. (Tobio burned.)  


Downstairs, the coast is clear the way it gets when the smokers all start up a private party. Sure enough, Tobio sees that the smoking room's now the crowded place, shakes his head. He crossed Kuroo-san on the stairs with a tray full of drinks, so it's only Inuoka at the bar, doing a little dance to the bright number blasting over the speakers.  


Tobio raises a hand to call his attention. Lowers it as he feels more than sees someone settle into the seat right beside his. The rest of the seats are free— whoever it is wants to talk. Tobio turns to his side.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, light hair, dark undercut. Leaning all his weight on the bar now, elbows pressing into the wood as he smiles down at his own hands, before looking up at Tobio and smiling at him, too. It's frank and friendly and freezes Tobio in place.  


'Kageyama-san, can I buy you a drink?' he says. 'Always dreamt of meeting ya.' 

'Sure,' Tobio says before he can think it through. Why couldn't he have been content with his stupid fucking strawberry juice? He just had to come downstairs, he just had to come to Shouyou's birthday party.All at once the idiocy of it all hits him, but he keeps a straight face. It's the one thing he knows how to do that Shouyou never learned. 

When they both have glasses in their hands, Tobio holds on to his for dear life. 'You—' 

'Miya Atsumu,' he cuts in, bright. ‘Stage tech. Shouyou's first and last attempt at a romantic connection with someone who ain’t you.'  


Oh. _Shouyou._ Tobio doesn't know which part of it to focus on, but _Shouyou_ comes first. The easy way he let it slip, the easy way he said the rest of it. The fact that he's here too. Is he coming back after years, too? Has he always been here? Who is he? Who is he?  


On cue, Miya takes a swig of his drink, sets it back down. 'I'm usually the one to organise his birthday bashes, been doin' it for five years now. First time he's wanted to do it himself. Now I know why.' 

Five years. Tobio knows he hasn't said a word yet, but knowing that doesn't help him fix it. It doesn't seem to bother Miya either, who keeps talking in that same light voice. It doesn't even look like a front, he doesn't look like he's here to fight. He looks agreeable if anything, and Tobio doesn't know what to do with that. 

Then Miya speaks again, and his words are chilling, because he's agreeable. 

'Kageyama-san, you got some nerve showin' up here,' he says. 'Not a provocation. I'm just observin'. You _do_ have some nerve. Must've been hard.' 

At that, something shifts. Tobio takes as big a gulp his drink as his throat will allow, and doesn't let himself wince as it goes down, because Miya's right. He has some fucking nerve showing up here, so he might as well go all the way. The night'll end soon and they can forget about it, he can forget about the way Shouyou smiled at him an hour ago, the way his hands felt so large and strong and heavy ten minutes ago. The way Shouyou met Miya Atsumu five years ago. 

'It was,' he replies. 'I hope it wasn't as hard for him to have me here.' 

'I wouldn't know,' Miya says. 'He didn't tell me until I saw ya. Brat.'  


Tobio snorts. 'Well, at least that hasn't changed.' 

Miya smiles. It's agreeable. He doesn't hate Tobio, which means he's so close to Shouyou that he's come out on the other side, just like how Tobio knows Natsu never forgave him but Shouyou's mother did. But this— hurts differently. This is Tobio looking at Miya's broad shoulders and wondering how many times Shouyou stumbled and grabbed onto them. Looking at Miya's rough hair and wondering how many times Shouyou touched it. Looking at Miya's agreeable smile and wondering how it is when he's looking at Shouyou. 

Tobio's spent half his life being the only one in the universe to have had Shouyou, and now he isn't. Suddenly, he isn't. Suddenly, Shouyou's life without Tobio is filling up this room, and it's hard to breathe. 

'Tell you the truth, I don't know what I'm doin' here talking to you,' Miya says. 'If you're curious about me and Shouyou, it lasted a month, tops. Well, twenty-seven days and three hours if you wanna know. Caught him tryin'a sneak out my apartment in the middle of the night. He set off the smoke alarm 'cause he wanted to make me apology soup.' 

That does it. The strain cracks; Tobio laughs, louder than he expected. He doesn't know what's the funnier bit. Imagining Shouyou gathering his things and trying to tiptoe through Miya's apartment but getting caught because he's Shouyou and clumsiness is his entire personality. Imagining another person having to deal with Shouyou, fully-formed and ready to attack this time. Realising something, and seeing the same realisation on Miya's face. Tobio, thinking _so he still does this to people, ruins them for the rest of the world, like this sucker here._ Miya, thinking _so ten years from now, I will still be in love with him, like this sucker here._

'Laugh all ya want,' Miya says, then, raising his glass. Tobio clinks it with his. 'At least _he_ left _me._ I'm not the one who had the sun in my stupid fuckin' hands and dropped it like a stack of plates.' 

And— that's right, so Tobio drowns the rest of his drink in one go.

✶

They stay there until midnight. There's something about the way Miya talks, the way he knows exactly what words he wants to say— not with mathematic precision like Kei, but with a bone-deep certainty that you can only have when you think you have the right to every single one of your emotions. Yes— Miya Atsumu owns his emotions, and he's not too polite to shame others for not owning theirs. In fact, he's not polite at all. 

Tobio's tongue is loose with alcohol and the weird thrill of sitting next to someone who's had Shouyou too, even for a little while, even for twenty-seven days and three hours. For the first time in his life, the fact of Shouyou doesn't make a conversation come to a halt. It's all they want to talk about. Miya tells Tobio about how much of a pain it is to be Shouyou’s stage tech, and how he took months to get used to the weird phrasing of his instructions and to understand intuitively what he needed. (Tobio tells Miya about the time Shouyou ate so much blue candy that he was sick for a day and had to call out from school.)

If Shouyou's noticed them, he's too drunk to care. Hasn't come looking for either of them for over an hour, and (probably on Kuroo-san's instruction) nor has Kei. But at midnight Miya looks at his phone and says something about some prickly flatmate he's got waiting up for him who'll throw a fit if he skips out on their movie marathon, and takes his leave. 

'Kageyama-san,' he says, turning around one last time. 'I've always dreamt of meeting ya, so can you do me a favour?'  


'What?' 

Miya leans in. He isn't smiling. 

'You're the reason Shouyou looks like _that_ first thing when he wakes up,' he says, and Tobio's throat closes up. 'When he realises he was just dreamin'. So please, be careful with the crockery, will ya?' 

Tobio watches him leave. Watches him look for Shouyou, then find him, then pull him into his broad chest. His arms around Shouyou look stronger and surer than anything Tobio could've given to him all those years ago, when they were children, and terrible ones at that. Watches as Miya kisses the top of Shouyou's head and ruffles his hair, then frees himself from Shouyou's drunk grip and walks away laughing. 

Could Tobio have stood being that close to Shouyou after it all? 

Not for a second. Not for a second.

✶

It's past one in the morning, but the summer air makes it feel like the middle of the afternoon. Yachi and Yamaguchi have already left, and Kei doesn't mind waiting because he gets to do it with Kuroo-san. Tobio makes him wait a minute longer because he wastes it on staring at the way they're talking in soft murmurs to each other, Kei leaning over the counter while Kuroo-san arranges glasses behind it. It's not every day that Tobio gets to see that kind of smile on Kei's face. Not every day.

The minute passes, and he has to remember why Kei's waiting. Outside, Shouyou is seeing off the last of his friends, goodbyes a bit too loud, and Tobio needs to get out there and join him before he comes back inside. There's no way he can say what he wants to say with a single other person around. 

So he steels himself and walks out just as Shouyou's friends leave, and comes to stand beside him, staring out at the row of closed cafés across the road. Shouyou doesn't say anything for a moment, then turns to look up at Tobio.

'You stayed till the end,' he says, alcohol slowing his speech just enough for Tobio to be endeared, nauseous with nostalgia, unable to believe that he isn’t allowed to just— reach out and take Shouyou. 'You really didn't have other plans, huh.' 

'I did,' Tobio replies. 'But I figured I should spend some time with the real thing, not my memory of it.' 

Shouyou exhales like Tobio struck him on the chest, and Tobio thinks, just as well. 'Kageyama, why are you here?' 

Tobio thinks, just as well. He lost every right to be around Shouyou years ago, and even if he had been better about things the way Miya is, he wouldn't have been able to stand being accorded Shouyou's friendship, and they would've ended up here anyway. Tobio, it looks like, was destined to ruin things no matter what. Make terrible decisions.

What's one more?

'I don't know,' he answers. 'And I won't do it again. I won't barge into your life like that again. I'm sorry.' 

Shouyou smiles at his shoes. He looks, for a second, so fucking sad that Tobio wants to crouch on the ground and cry. But he isn't here to cry, he's here to invite Shouyou to make a terrible decision.

'But— if you ever.' Takes a deep breath. Deep breath. 'I didn't give you your present yet.' 

'You got me a present?' 

'I did, an hour ago.' Tobio reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, stares down at it for a second before pulling up the home screen, willing himself not to stop now while he's ahead. 'I— you've never seen any of my shows.' 

There's silence for a full minute, Tobio's eyes fixed on his screen until it goes blank. Then he sees Shouyou's feet move closer, clenches his teeth. 

'I've seen every single one of them,' Shouyou says, low. 'And you'd better have seen all of mine.' 

Despite himself Tobio smiles, even though his eyes are stinging now, all of it catching up to him. 

'Well,' he says. 'Maybe it's about time you saw one live.' 


	9. august 26, 12:03 AM

Daichi looks handsome in a way he never has before. It's almost like his appearance, today, is reserved for one and one person only, when otherwise he and Suga are so grounded in their link to each other that they've never felt the need to make a show of it. When Tetsurou first met Daichi in college, he'd been with Suga for four, five years already, and they'd had more than that to fit into each other's lives. Back then Daichi was a little less certain of himself, but never less certain of what he was when he was with Suga. Tetsurou remembers the first time he met Suga and thought to himself, _ah, so it’s him._ They were at a café, their drinks definitely too hot for the middle of August, and Suga had walked in just like that, beautiful and light-footed like a wind chime in person. Tetsurou remembers how he had greeted Daichi, hands trailing over his shoulders, the way Daichi had looked up at him.  


It's past the middle of August, and today Daichi is picking out fabrics and colours and knits for only one person in the world; he couldn't care less if they were the only two at the ceremony. It's what makes his face shine in a way Tetsurou has never seen it shine before, like the radiance is coming from within, the pride of it all. The pride of being loved by someone else to the point of oblivion. To the point of permanence.

'Can you stop having whatever crisis it is you're having and make a verbal comment?' Daichi snaps, at which Tetsurou starts to attention. He's standing in front of a full-length mirror that allows Tetsurou to see the back of his jacket where the pegs are tightening the fabric into place, arms spread, eyebrows raised. It may be for Suga and Suga only, but Daichi does need his best man's opinion, and it'll be difficult for him to obtain it if Tetsurou can't control the lump in his throat. 

'You look ugly as hell,' he informs Daichi through the lump. He does. His suit is dark patternless black, playing off perfectly against the pure white of his shirt and the tan of his skin, the exasperated smile on his face. 'Seriously. Suga's going to do an about turn and walk away straight to the train station.' 

'Good to know,' Daichi retorts, but the smile grows wider. 'Seriously. I won't get it unless you approve.' 

The lump grows larger despite Tetsurou. He wonders if he would've been as moved before it all, but he can never know; he only has his current life as a reference point, and only knows that nothing tugs at him so much as seeing his friends deciding to make something more permanent than permanent. Daichi, two months from now in this same suit, in the green and the fog of Mishima, with Suga standing across from him. Suga, two days ago, picking out his own suit with Shimizu, standing in front of a full-length mirror and imagining Daichi, two months from now.

It doesn't matter if it would've moved Tetsurou as much, if everything hadn't happened. Their permanence has nothing to do with him or anyone else in the world. It's an entity of its own, almost independent of Suga and Daichi themselves, a presence of its own. Ugly suits or not, undead best men or not. What matters is that Daichi looks more handsome than he ever has and it's because he only has one person on his mind. 

'It's good,' Tetsurou says finally. 'God, what am I saying? Daichi, shut up and get it. He's going to cry.' 

'We both know I'm the one who's going to cry.' He sounds two seconds away from it right now, which will set Tetsurou off, and he's not about to end his four-year streak over Giorgio fucking Armani. He clears his throat and throws a withering look in Daichi's direction, gets one back, deflects the moment. 

**Tsukishima [13:45]  
** You've spent more time with them but I've known them for longer. Can confirm that Daichi-san is going to be the one that cries.

**Me [13:50]  
** Come now, Tsukishima  
Can you not take my side for once?

**Tsukishima [13:53]  
** I would if you'd pick the right side.

  
✶

The Tuesday that follows, Tetsurou shows him the pictures, fitting pegs and all. Tsukishima stares down at the phone for the longest time, before passing it back to Tetsurou with a small smile. His headphones are still around his neck, depriving Tetsurou of the full view of the skin of his throat, the only compensation the sweat pooled at the hollow of it, which he does get to see. A fleeting gaze to that hollow, then to the tendons of Tsukishima's wrists as he passes the phone back. The curl of his lips. The heat of the end of the summer is getting to Tetsurou's head in ways he didn't expect it to, and it's all he can do to maintain a conversation. 

'I have something to show you, too,' Tsukishima says, then, voice a little too quiet in his own office. 'If you're interested, that is.' 

'That depends,' Tetsurou replies. 'If it's a flute composition from five hundred years ago, I'm interested. If it's another embarrassing picture of your brother, I'm _very_ interested, and a little terrified. If it's—' 

'An unreleased acoustic version of one of Hinata's songs?' 

Tetsurou stops short, and blinks at Tsukishima. The sun is right behind him, depriving Tetsurou of the full view of his face, but what he can see compensates. There's a halo of light behind his long pale curls, and the smile on his face looks almost like he's letting Tetsurou into the sweetest of confidences. August gets to Tetsurou in a series of seconds like blows, and he finds himself melting, smiling. 

'Which one?' 

It's _Verse._ One of Tetsurou's favourites, the combination of the flute with the percussion some of the most tasteful work he's heard, and the lyrics so pure and straightforward— like everything else about Hinata that he's discovered so far— that they make him wonder at how someone like that could exist for someone else like that to love. _You, the verse suspended on my lips. I, the vigil-dream of your eyes. Love, that I could forget you._

Without the percussion, it transforms into something altogether quieter. Mournful, almost, in its innocence. It forces Tetsurou to pay more attention to the lyrics and to Hinata's voice too; there's a different quality to it when Tetsurou knows it's not for the public. He wonders if this is a regular occurrence, Hinata sending unreleased music to Tsukishima, for him to— to do what? Archive it? Remember it? Chronicle it?

It occurs to Tetsurou that Tsukishima plays the same role beyond his sphere of academia that he plays within it, and the thought of it moves him more than the song itself. Leaning back in the chair he's grown so used to over the months, he closes his eyes, listens to Hinata singing as if to himself, and wonders how he could have decided so early on that he never wants to meet someone new. How he could have decided, albeit unwittingly, to pass by Tsukishima. 

'It's something else, isn't it?' he hears, keeps his eyes closed, nods. ‘I asked him if I could show you this one, I just had to. Every once in a while he'll send me something like this out of the blue, with no explanation. It's like I'm a secret-keeper.' 

That's it, what Tetsurou was looking for. _Secret-keeper._ That's Tsukishima, gathering as many facts from the songrooms of history as from the hands of his friends, and keeping them all safe, somewhere where they will never be forgotten by time, even if they're forgotten by the world. Building something for the people of tomorrow to remember and put their feet upon. 

'Can you keep one more secret?' _You, like love settling into my soul. I, running to where your song sounds._

'What's one more secret in the grand scheme of things?' Tsukishima sounds light, but it's careful. Deliberate.

Tetsurou takes a deep breath, and tries to come up with a secret. There is only one, and it isn't really a secret at all, so he tips his head back, opens his eyes, and considers the ceiling. 

'Maybe later,' he says.

✶

Dinner is at Koutarou and Akaashi's place, because they refuse to let Suga play his compulsive host this close to October, when he's already neck-deep in school and planning. No one really minds; there's no question that Koutarou and Akaashi's combined tastes make for the best apartment out of the lot, the kind of place that no one feels like leaving. An incredible balance of wood and steel, exposed-filament lamps as far as the eye can see, and a living room carpet so fuzzy that the first thing Tetsurou always does on entering is lie down on it with a theatrical sigh.  


Today, he's late enough that it's already occupied; Azumane is cross-legged in the centre of it, surrounded by all sorts of sketches, only half of which look like they belong to a designer. His hair is in a messy bun at the top of his head, at least three pencils sticking out, and he's too engrossed in his work to greet Tetsurou properly. Tetsurou waves at him and Michimiya (who’s out cold on the couch) anyway before heading to the kitchen, where, just as he expected, Suga is helping with the food despite explicit instructions to stay away. 

Tetsurou leans in the doorway, arms crossed, and takes in the business of the room. Koutarou's in his stupid owl print apron, sleeves rolled up and hair a mess from the humidity, chopping scallions like his life depends on it while Daichi does the same next to him; of course they've made a race out of it. Over at the stove Shimizu is busy trying to wrestle the ladle away from Suga while he laughs and holds it out of her reach, uncaring of the stray drops of soup he's getting on them both. The steel of the ladle catches the overhead light; it all shines for a second. Tetsurou, overfond, can't bring himself to greet a single one of them for fear of upsetting the rhythm of their chaos. 

Then he feels a hand on his elbow, turns to find Akaashi smiling up at him. He's got his own apron on, matched with Koutarou's, though it doesn't look as silly on him, only endearing. Tetsurou smiles back when Akaashi nods his head towards the rest of them as if to say _idiots, am I right._ Yes, they are, and Tetsurou wouldn't exchange them against anyone in the world. 

'I think I'll add another name to the guest list next time,' Akaashi says, straight-faced but playful. 'What do you think?' 

Tetsurou snorts, but his smile grows wider. 'Don't you have kitchen duties to be attending to?'

'Not at the moment, no. But tell me, is it true that you'll be driving him to Mishima? Koutarou sounded so pleased about it I thought he would explode.' 

'Why do I tell that man anything,' Tetsurou groans. But Akaashi only hums, leaning against the opposite edge of the doorframe and crossing his own arms, so he elaborates. 'He said he won't be able to take the same train as everyone because of classes, so I offered to drive him. That's all there is to it.' 

'Four hours driving through the hills doesn't sound like _that's all_ to me, Kuroo-san. You love driving.' 

'Akaashi, out of all these clowns, I'd have expected _you_ to show a little decorum.' 

'As usual, you hold me to impossibly high standards. Now please come and help me with the apples.’ 

Tetsurou steps in to help with the damn apples. Holds the fridge open for Akaashi as he gathers them from the crisper, nudges it shut with his foot before following him to the only square of empty space on the counter. Watches with a stupid smile on his face— he can _feel_ the stretch— as Akaashi reaches for a knife from the block and spins a perfect apple around before slicing into it in one swift stroke. Behind them, Koutarou makes a silly sound effect as he attacks a fresh batch of scallions, and Tetsurou's supposed to be helping with the apples but there is a— a certain lightness, and this time he lets it step close enough to lift his feet off the floor. And now?

He turns around, steps to where Koutarou and Daichi are now both screaming, hands a blur over their chopping boards. Only when they both pause to blink at him questioningly does he breathe again. The acoustic strains of Hinata's song are still fresh in his ears, and the humidity in this kitchen is going to make his hair worse than ever, but Tetsurou is overcome with weightlessness; he looks at his best friends, and opens his arms. 

Koutarou only waits a split second before dropping his knife and positively leaping forward to gather Tetsurou in. He's a little sweaty from the heat and his hair is so ridiculously fluffed up. Tetsurou loves him so fiercely that his arms aren't strong enough for it. 

'Hey! No fair!' He hears from behind him, and then Daichi's chest is pressed to his back, a third pair of arms going around them both. ‘Me too!’

'The knife. Daichi, _knife._ ' 

Daichi lets go with a laugh and a too-harsh ruffle of Tetsurou's hair, but Koutarou holds on. Face pressed to the crook of Tetsurou's neck, rocking him side to side, rising so quick to affection no matter the time or the context. How could Tetsurou have decided, so early on, to pass him by? To pass them all by? To stand in the doorway and not help with the apples? 

'The apples,' he says. His voice is thick. 'Let go of me, you oaf.' And now, does he reach out? Why the apples? Why now?

'You're trapped now. No apples for anyone. We shall eat love. Love! Tetsu, stop _squirming_ , I swear to God.’ 

✶

  
It's past midnight when his phone rings, and he's long since changed Tsukishima's ringtone to a generic bird-chirping sample he found in his settings. It's long since turned sweet from obnoxious, pulling a Pavlovian smile from his lips whenever it goes off. In the middle of the afternoon when Tsukishima's bored of correcting assignments, in the middle of the night just because. Tonight he's more than ready, swiping his phone off his counter even as he continues stirring the corner-store ramen he absolutely should not be having at this hour in this weather, no matter how cold he keeps his apartment.

'Tsu-ki-shi-ma-san,' he sings, turning the heat low to let it simmer and heading to the fridge to get some juice. Picks out kiwi and brings it back to the counter, presses the phone between his ear and shoulder to get the bottle open. 'To what do I owe the immense pleasure of your dulcet voice at this midnight hour?' 

There's a pause, and then Tsukishima snorts. 'Somebody's in a good mood.' 

'I most definitely am. I had the best dinner ever but I'm still hungry, and I'm about to have cheap ramen like I'm in college again. You should have some too.' 

'I think I'll pass, thanks. I— I'll leave you to it. Sorry—' 

'Oh, no, no,' Tetsurou cuts in, cutting the stove off completely and lifting the pot away, setting it aside. 'The ramen can wait. I'm all yours.' 

He knows what he just said, knows Tsukishima knows it too, but for once, he just doesn't care. Doesn't care that he's careless without calculation now, the things he lets slip no longer strategic. He refuses to regret meeting Tsukishima, too, after all, and he is still in flight from how bright the day was, doesn't want to end it just yet. Flops lazily onto the living room couch, one hand trailing to the floor, the other tracing patterns on the fabric, phone on the armrest. 

The silence lasts long enough that Tetsurou reconsiders, after all, but before he can compensate with something even cheesier, Tsukishima huffs again. He hears the click of the lighter, the hiss of the flame. Imagines Tsukishima leaning back in his chair in the perfect little study Tetsurou's imagined up for him but never dared to ask about because it's too close to _your place or mine._ In that imagined study, Tsukishima has a huge desk that has exactly one sleek-looking setup, a perfect steel ashtray, and nothing else apart from a mug of coffee and at most, a stack of papers to be gotten to at some point in the week. A large standing lamp next to Tsukishima's chair, the smaller attachment curved towards the desk, throwing a perfect circle of yellow light in the otherwise-dark room. Yes, Tetsurou thinks, Tsukishima is the kind of person who works in a dark room, focusing only on what matters. 

'Say something,' he says. 'You're the one who called.' The only light in his own living room is from the strips he's fixed under the couch; they light the floor in faint orange, a contrast to the clear summer moonlight coming in through the large windows. 

More silence, then, in a rush: 'Is it later yet?' 

Tetsurou's hand stops tracing patterns on the couch, all his blood going, for a moment, to where a single fingertip is pressed into the fabric. He can feel it pulsing under his nail.  _Maybe later._ Is it later yet? When was later even supposed to be, for him to have said that so confidently this afternoon? 

'It _is_ late,' he says, lips tingling with the act of replying to such a direct question. 'It can be later if you want.' 

An exhale, loud enough for Tetsurou to hear and close his eyes to. If he closes his eyes, yes, then he can be in the imagined study. Settling on the empty desk and looking down at Tsukishima in his chair, stealing his cigarette away from him, its burning end the single hottest point in the visible universe. It isn't as if he hasn't thought about it before, the million and one ways in which life could change if he leaned forward one day and stole the sound of everything right from Tsukishima's lips. Stole the silence, too, the one that is ringing between them now like a song of its own, one whose lyrics are in a language so far unrecorded. 

'I do,' Tsukishima says, and there is a dark quality to his voice that makes Tetsurou's toes curl. 'And I have other questions.' 

_I have questions._ Tetsurou opens his eyes, stares up at the dark ceiling. Closes them again. 

'I'm listening.' 

'You'd better be,' comes the reply, the laughter in it almost possessive, and then Tsukishima— does that thing he does, where he goes distant and stern, professor voice _._ It makes Tetsurou want to set fire to something just to get his attention. 'Where are you?' 

'On the living room couch.' He's sinking into it, actually, his bones weighing twice themselves all of a sudden. Despite how cold he keeps his apartment, summer is crawling up his legs and thighs. August is getting to him.

'Are you lying down?' 

'I am.' 

'How do you feel?' 

How _does_ he feel? 

'Like there's a snake at my feet and he's going to strike without warning.' Like there's a neon red lamp above his head, and it's going to explode. 

Tsukishima laughs, long and low and pleased. 'Well, then, Kuroo-san.' He knows what's coming, has heard it so many times that he knows exactly how many seconds it takes to say. Heard it in parks under trees shedding blossoms like rainfall, heard it on Shibuya crossing in the middle of the day, heard it outside the nameless bar past two in the morning. He screws his eyes shut tight and waits for it like it's the first time, anyway. 'What do you hear?'

'I hear...' Tetsurou takes in a breath, lets it out. Keeps his eyes closed as he takes in the space around him, the space within him. Outside, there is the gentle hum of electricity, the life of the apartment. The soft tapping of his nails on the floor, the sound his jeans make against the couch cushions as he bends his legs, then straightens them again, anything to shake the heat off. 'I hear all the sounds of the night. The ones you can't hear during the day because the world is too busy with itself.' 

Inside, only his blood in his ears, the beat of his heart a drum, a _drum;_ thump, thump, thump in his throat, his chest, the insides of his wrists, inside his head. _What do you hear, Kuroo-san?_

'Drumming,' he adds, swallows; his throat is dry. 'Loud.' 

And now? How is Tsukishima doing all these things to him, having him smiling in the morning and shifting at night? Tetsurou had forgotten what it’s like to be a person. To have tides.  


'Good,' Tsukishima replies. Tetsurou strains to hear something, anything, in his voice, until he registers the word itself. _Good._ What more is there to look for? 'And my last question for the night, before you tell me this secret of yours.'  


'What?' Oh, that was definitely a rasp in his voice. Tsukishima heard it. He knows it was heard, knows it more because of the answering lilt that comes singing through after a beat.  


'What do you want to hear? What are you listening for?' 

Clever little thing. Dark, knowing, and loud like a drum, soft as a pin-drop, folding the sound of the secret into the question itself, a snake ready to strike.

'You're going to be the death of me,' Tetsurou laughs; it does nothing to dispel the pressure of the world around him holding its breath. 'Then again, what's one more death in the grand scheme of things?' 

Tsukishima is silent. He is listening, loudly. Tetsurou's hands are tight around his own thighs, so tight he can barely feel his fingers. If he closes his eyes, Tsukishima can be here. Settling at Tetsurou's feet before replacing those numb fingers with his own, and striking. The thought of it makes him so aware of his heartbeat that for a single second, terror replaces heat, and his next inhale is so unsteady he knows Tsukishima can hear it. 

'I'm listening, too,' Tetsurou says. 'I'm listening for it.' Any minute now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [verse.](https://open.spotify.com/track/3FLJR1N1dxOYEpZCsTX8p6?si=PHjCnzraTp-Lh7e1ykS0wQ)


	10. heliograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [opera city concert hall, tokyo](https://www.operacity.jp/en/concert/facilities/ch/)
> 
> should you wish to read with bgm: [_empty._](https://open.spotify.com/album/5XD78Fc6jfSfFYgwynseoI?si=As_c_-i1ROCmAmiH0mE5aA) the last piece in the album is the last piece composed by kageyama, referred to in the chapter.

The dressing room is large, but it feels small, and not even because of the piano that Miwa is sitting on the bench of, the jade green silk of her gown stark against the black wood. No, it feels small because Tobio feels too full for it, full of energy, of fear, of a restless buzzing that's making every single bone of his itch.  


He straightens up and takes a deep breath, stares himself down in the mirror, the harsh bulbs around it doing no favours to how pale his face looks. Runs a hand through his hair— it's getting long— straightens his tie again. He doesn't look any different from his other concerts, so there's no point staring himself down the way he is. But if he doesn't, he doesn't know what else he'll do. His hands ache too much to play, and besides, if he gets within close enough range of Miwa she won't be able to resist asking why he's on edge. They're doing such a good job of pretending the room isn't too small for him tonight, and he doesn't want to ruin that. 

On cue, Miwa looks up from her phone, and at him through the mirror. Tobio winces as she straightens up, the stray curls escaping from her bun trailing over her shoulders with the movement. Like he does every time she's attending a concert, Tobio thinks, the wrong sibling gave up on performing. She might find ten times more satisfaction in producing and managing his work, but out of the two of them, her fingers are just that bit longer, her shoulders just that bit straighter. (But— Miwa's always been too proud to love anything. Piano or people.)

'Is the setlist giving you trouble? You're the one who asked to change it, you know.' 

'I know,' Tobio says, sulky. 'It's nothing.' It's everything. It's summer, on the edge of tipping over into fall, like he could wake up any day to grey skies and damp breezes. It's him, feeling like Shouyou used to back when they were fifteen and he was as scared of the stage as in love with it. 

It’s the last show of the tour, back home.

'It's nothing,' he lies again. Miwa doesn't point it out.

✶

Still, there's a moment when he steps onto the stage, when the glare of the lights on the polished wood and the imposing mountain-like slope of the high ceiling make him feel like turning away and going right back into the wings. Opera City's always been special for having hosted his first big performance, but it's been so many years since then that the edges of that memory have been sanded off, and it's less sharp, more glowing. But tonight, it's all shards and splinters, like that very first time, and he has to tell himself more than once not to look out into the audience. It can only end badly. He'll probably not be able to find who he's looking for, and despite himself the disappointment will get to him.  


And if he does find him, right in the front section seats that he barely ever reserves for anyone, then—

The second wave of applause is dying down now; he bows again, and turns to the Steinway, takes a deep breath. Thinks about Miwa in the balcony, and how Kei will call him up tomorrow morning to read out another review in that scathing voice he puts on. Thinks about everybody in the world except Hinata Shouyou, and then thinks about no one but him when he puts his fingers to the keys, spreads them out, reintroduces skin to spruce.

It's easy to close the world off then, put it behind the curtains of Iguaçu, the moment the first note sounds in the silent hall. It rolls like a marble down the slope of hearing, and before it can come to a stop he joins with the second, the third, the fourth. In seconds the piano comes to him, following the suggestion of his fingers instead of the fingers themselves, hearing what he says in his head before he says it out loud. 

He's played the new album so many times this year that he doesn't have to think about it, just play, play, play. Tobio's never put out a single piece he isn't sure of, and the new album isn't different, but tonight, as he plays for someone who might not be here, he thinks of it again. Thinks back to the nameless bar where he met Miya and a dozen other people who were perfect cutouts in the tapestry of the world around Shouyou, thinks about how distinct it was. How easy it was to know those things about him after all these years, how the comet trail of his life can be traced so easily in the heart-on-the-sleeve lyrics of his songs, even the evolving sound of them. 

Is it that easy to know Tobio? He doesn't think so. He composed the new album last summer in Brazil, but it doesn't feel like a time capsule of everything he felt there. The pieces always tell a story when lined up together, but it isn't a story about a place or a time. It's something less easy to hold, like the rolling of sea-mist onto the land, visible but not tangible, and always the fucking same. Tobio has no comet trail, no forward path, no highs or lows. Only a flat line that he walks with balance every single day of his life.

Tobio has no comet trail. How could anyone come find him? 

✶

Ten days before Shouyou got the email and started changing their lives in secret, without telling Tobio about it until it was too late, Tobio finished putting together the last piece of what would end up being his third album. He still doesn't know if it was the last piece because it was supposed to be, or because the story that music was telling was cut short so suddenly that everything went quiet. Whichever it is, it was ten days before Shouyou was offered a single-album contract in Los Angeles that would catapult him to enough fame to have Japanese labels scrambling for his attention the year after, and Tobio had no idea that any of it was going to happen. 

Like any other artist, he always plays old favourites after his promotion material. Miwa's the one who draws up the setlist— she knows all of Tobio's different audiences better than he does. Paris needs to be amazed, Tokyo needs to be reminded, New York needs to be soothed. He never has anything to say about it as long as she doesn't put the third album on it— he never toured for it either, has never performed it live. 

Ten days before the world gave Shouyou a chance to take off, Tobio finished putting together the last piece of what would be his third album. Leant back from his keyboard with a smile just as Shouyou barged in through the doors singing the chorus to an anime opening, arms full of grocery bags, the weight of one of them pulling his left sleeve down and exposing his shoulder. Shouyou dumped them all on the counter before bounding over to where Tobio was sitting, leaning all his weight on Tobio's back, arms wrapping around arms, wrists around wrists. 

_Going good?_ he asked, and Tobio leant back further, into his chest, eyes closed.

_Listen to this._

He never included that piece when he released the album four years later. Out of an entire story whispered out between him and Shouyou that winter-spring, the last one of their lives, that last piece was the worst. So close to perfection, to sounding like Shouyou's falsetto, his playful singing. The way he always smiled when singing, never taking himself seriously the way Tobio did. Never taking Tobio seriously, putting on faces and voices and airs to make fun of him, fingers playing over his ribs where he was ticklish, snapping his teasing teeth at every inch of Tobio's skin. The way he sang as if having a conversation with Tobio _._

That day, Shouyou didn't laugh or sing or smile. When Tobio finished playing and turned to raise an eyebrow at him, Shouyou had taken his hands, and kissed them. The backs of his fingers, every joint, going down to Tobio's knuckles, lips soft. Fingers gripping fingers, the only point of meeting between their bodies, strings-keys-sound-song-laugh-love. Shouyou's fingertips were rough and Tobio's smooth, his hands cold and Tobio's, warm. That day they didn't have dinner. 

Miwa's the one who draws up the setlist. Tonight is the first time Tobio's asked her to change it, the first time he's playing he's playing this album live. It's called _empty,_ maybe the only one of his works that tells a full story, because it stops so clearly that its end can be imagined by the listener even if they can't hear it. Everyone knows where the story of _empty_ is supposed to go, the trailing off of the piece-before-last like a glittering mirage on the road ahead. See it without having it. Know it without touching it. 

(Maybe that's it, after all. Shouyou, a comet, close enough to run after but not close enough to catch. Tobio, a long-gone star still visible to the eye in its brightest moment.)

✶

Whether he's here tonight or not, the fact that Tobio wishes he were is enough for him to change the setlist and play _empty_ to a crowd of strangers. There's something about the way it sounds out loud like this, something so obvious he can't put words to it. He closes his eyes and focuses on the instrument instead, on each individual note instead of the whole. It helps, but only until he finishes the piece-before-last, because then there's silence, and he has to make his decision fast, before he loses his nerve. 

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds, and the first smatterings of applause start. It's what spurs him into action, because no, he's not done speaking yet. He's not done singing yet. He's not done singing yet.

Tobio lifts his hands off the keys and holds them in the air for a second, and then brings them down to play the last piece.

✶

There aren't as many autographs to sign this time. It's the last show, and he's already performed the new album in Tokyo before. Still, it keeps him busy for at least twenty minutes after, while his head buzzes with post-concert white noise and the strange mix of relief and disappointment he's feeling. He has no idea what the people whose albums he's signing are saying, only smiles at them, nods, thanks them. He's never had a reputation for talking, anyway. 

He knows Miwa's waiting upstairs in the dressing room, packing up his things and trying to find a bar for them to spend half the night in while she talks money and plans, but despite himself. Despite himself, he waves to the last of the fans, bows to the organisation team one last time, and, instead of heading for the elevator, he takes a different turn. Heads to the artist's lobby instead, the only place one of his guests could sit safely. Tells himself there's no use, one of the staff would've told him if someone was here, tells himself that even if he did come, he might've left already—  


Shouyou is leaning against a pillar just beyond the doorway, the rest of the hall empty, brightly-lit. He came. Arms crossed, temple pressed to the marble, staring right at Tobio with this horrid, soft smile on his face. Tobio stops short for a second to stare back— he's in full dress code, white shirt, rich brown waistcoat, piercings gone. Handsome, a hundred times himself. 

He came, and he dressed for it, and he came. He came. Tobio thinks his chest might split open, all the white noise rushing out. 

He steps closer. Shouyou doesn't move, not even when Tobio is so close he can see the tired red skin under his eyes, that screams that he's cried tonight. He isn't old enough to hide it yet. His skin hasn't remade itself enough times over for Tobio not to know it yet. Not enough time has passed to sand the edges of that way he has of looking at Tobio. That separates Tobio from his own self.

'I didn't think I'd ever hear that melody again,' Shouyou says. His voice is raw. 

'I didn't think I'd ever play it again,' Tobio replies. 'I didn't think I'd ever see you again.' 

'You never do.' 

Tobio frowns; it distracts him from the surge of tears in his throat. Shouyou's gaze drops before lifting again, and that same little smile is back, so much worse when Tobio can see it up this close, can point out the hundred different ways in which it's nothing like how Shouyou used to smile at him back then.

'I came here five years ago too,' Shouyou says, and the floor tilts under Tobio's feet. 'For your first concert. I was here.' 

Five years ago, Tobio was twenty-two, and it was the first time in his life that he'd been as scared of the stage as in love with it. Twelve years ago, when they were fifteen, Tobio, one day, stopped blinking in confusion at how Shouyou would get restless and nauseous and sniffly the day of a performance. Started thinking about how to work with him to solve it instead. Held his hands, flicked his forehead, yelled at him to get his shit together to startle him into indignation, make him forget his nerves. As much a ritual as tuning his guitar, drinking hot lemon water to clear his throat. 

Five years ago, there had been no one backstage to hold Tobio's hands, flick his forehead. No one who could've made a difference, anyway. It was him and his instrument, and barely, at that. He remembers how he'd performed that day, but can't imagine how he would have, if he'd known Shouyou was hidden in the crowd somewhere, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, waiting. Waiting.

'Come upstairs,' Tobio says, then, stumbling over the words. ‘I could show you what I’m working on for the wedding. Please. Promise— I won't keep you long.' 

At that, Shouyou— laughs. Straightens up, finally, and grins at Tobio, years of light in a second. 

'I didn't come all the way here to leave without roasting your performance,' he says, and Tobio's chest does crack, and the noise does hum at the edges. 'Lead the way.' 

✶

Miwa's stepping out of the room, phone pressed to her ear and frown on her face, just as they enter the hallway. She looks up, opens her mouth, then stops short, lowering the phone even as Tobio's rings in his pocket. 

She's still staring by the time they get to the door, Shouyou waving, rubbing the back of his head. 'I— wow, it's been a long time, Miwa-senpai.' 

Miwa spares a glance at Tobio that lasts one second but says twenty different things, most of them _what's going on,_ before she turns to Shouyou and smiles. 

'Hinata,' she says. 'Good God, kid, what did they feed you in America? You look like a damn tree.' 

She doesn't stay long, doesn't pretend like that. Only shows them into the room, tells Tobio she'll handle the rest, and leaves after throwing him another look that means _I don't like being curious, but God damn._

When the door closes behind her, Tobio, suddenly terrified, goes to sit at the mirror. Turns the lights on even though they hurt his head this late at night and after the glare of the concert hall. Reaches for the cotton and micellar water on the counter to take his corrective makeup off. He can see Shouyou's gaze on him in their reflection, the way he's sitting on the bed, leaning back, golden-washed, intent. There's something about being alone with him in a room again, and then there's something about being alone with him and a piano. Tobio realises that it's the first time since he was at the conservatory. Hopes he can pass off the sheen in his eyes as exhaustion.

'Well?' he says when he can't take the weight of Shouyou's eyes on him anymore. Puts the stained cotton aside and straightens his back, hot in his clothes but too scared to so much as undo his tie. 'Let me guess— I looked scary and unapproachable like always? I should talk more between pieces?'  


Shouyou smiles. 'It wouldn't be a performance from Kageyama Tobio if more than seventeen words were said in total, would it?' 

Tobio blinks at him, then huffs, looks off to the side. 'I could say the same for you. You talk for half an hour between each song. Sometimes in the middle of a song.' 

'Hey, no comments on my shows unless you've seen one live. I have the upper hand here.'

He does. Tobio, though he's rewatched some lives so often he can remember the exact timestamps of Shouyou's voice cracking, hasn't dared to go to a single one. Always knew he wouldn't be able to take it, standing in front of who Shouyou became in his absence.

On cue, Shouyou looks away, at the piano. Waits a beat, then makes his way over to it.  


'I wanted to call you a million times,' he says. Tobio looks down at his hands, the pale worthless skin that hasn't seen the sun for years. 'Every time, I stopped myself. I thought maybe you'd call.'

He doesn't say _you never did,_ but he trails his fingers over the keys, and presses down on one that says it for him. Tobio flinches when it sounds, closes his eyes. Tries to think of a single thing to say that Shouyou would believe. That he wanted to call too, a million times. Didn't dare. With what face could he have called Shouyou? Congratulate him on a success forever ruined by Tobio's stupid young selfishness? To beg him to come back when he was the one who'd said _stay gone_ in the way he'd looked down at Shouyou looking up at him, thin, weak, pale, small? In the way he'd screwed his eyes shut and stepped back, left Shouyou's hands curled, clutching the air? 

'Though I don't know what I would've done if you had,' Shouyou continues. Sits down at the bench, pretends to play something with a flourish. 'I was so angry the first few months, I think I would just've screamed at you. Not that I didn't scream already.' A laugh. 'But I thought it'd be the other way 'round. I thought, maybe that first year in Cali, I thought I'd drop everything and come flying back the second you called.

'That's exactly why I didn't do it, I guess,' he says. Plays a note at the far right end, so thin it could shatter the room. 'The spite kept me going. And you never did call.'  


Tobio knows he's supposed to say something, anything, even the most useless words. Even just a sound. But his throat isn't working and his hands are cold, and it's all he can do to stay upright, let alone talk. They're long past forgiveness anyway, so maybe Shouyou will forgive him one more thing. 

Three notes, descending, random. Loud. 'But then I got better about it. I made up a Kageyama in my head and— imagined him growing up with me.' 

Tobio's eyes fill. He brings a knee up, presses his mouth against it to stifle the hitch in his breath. Undoes the laces of his shoe and twists them around his fingers. Tugs.  


The same note twice. 'I didn't have to think too hard, though. You were already putting music out when I got back, and— I had that, I guess. I'd listen to it all and think, _oh, he's like that now._ ' He trails off, then picks up again just as a tear slips over Tobio's lashes. 'I guess...I really could see you growing up. Just from afar. Still, it was better than talking to you in my head, right?'  


Tobio closes his eyes. Can't think of a single thing to say that Shouyou would believe, especially now. Would Shouyou really believe him if he said _me too?_ If he said that no, he didn't make up a Shouyou in his head and imagine growing up with him, but he did fix Shouyou in place in the sky like the evening star, passing a single flat line through him and walking that line every single day. That Tobio knows only two metaphors, piano and Shouyou.  


'And it's funny,' he hears, and God, he wishes Shouyou'd stop talking in that voice, like he's not even surprised that Tobio's not answering. 'I guess I screamed myself all out to you from afar. It's like I don't have anything left to say now that you're finally standing right in front of me.' 

Ten days after Tobio composed the last piece of a story cut short so perfectly that a hologram of its planned trajectory spread out into the universe anyway, Shouyou got an email, and started changing their lives in secret. Thinking back to it, the worst part was how he thought it'd be better that way, to tell Tobio about it when he'd already made his decision and fixed the dates, an entire month later. How Tobio could tell— in the split-second of joy that bloomed on Shouyou's face before he realised that Tobio's answering smile was more polite than genuine— that he thought it'd be a surprise, a good one.  


It wasn't. There is nothing that Tobio is more ashamed of than his reaction that day, than what it led to. That he couldn't muster an ounce of joy for Shouyou, he was caught up so fast in what it meant for him, for them. That he avoided Shouyou's questions— that got softer and fewer by the hour— until he couldn't take it anymore, until he whirled around. Opened his mouth. Said _I thought we were doing this together, and now you're leaving me behind._

_Tobio, does it look like we're doing this together? I'm working two damn jobs and sleeping four hours a day. I'm losing my breath trying to catch up to you. Don't you want me to catch up to you?_

A month and ten days after Tobio composed the last piece, Shouyou took a cold shower, came out of it dripping wet and still furious, and told Tobio he'd be going back to Karumai so that they could both calm down, and that he'd be back later. He'd be back before he left, he meant, and Tobio, caught up in the unfairness of tomorrow, didn't see him off at the station. Didn't see him off at the airport two months later, after Shouyou had come back only to find that Tobio hadn't budged an inch. After Shouyou, thin, weak, pale, small, had shoved at his shoulders and grabbed his face. 

Shouyou left Tobio when they were twenty. Rather, Shouyou left Tobio behind when they were twenty, despite that time that he'd laughed, sprawled out boneless and sated in their bed, saying _you'll just have to take me wherever you go._ And it wasn't until Tobio was twenty-five and sobbing on his kitchen floor that he realised, fully, finally, at last, how wrong he had been. That no, he couldn't tell Shouyou what he'd gained from this. That all he'd done was lose, and then lose Shouyou.

The lamps around the mirror stay half-lit for almost an entire minute after he turns them off. He watches them die out slowly, watches the light change on his face, before getting up and walking to the piano. Shouyou shifts. Tobio sits. Takes his jacket off, finally, and rolls his sleeves up. If he tries to forget everything, they could be in school again, him whipping the blazer of his uniform out of the way, Shouyou setting his guitar against the wall to bound over to the bench, sit cross-legged facing Tobio, chin in his hands, eyes wide. 

Tobio rolls his sleeves up and puts his fingers on the keys, presses down gingerly as if on a wound. The last piece, again, quieter. A conversation.

'You didn't tell me what you thought of the concert,' he says quietly. 'It was for you.'

Shouyou's breath falters. Then he laughs over the song of the keys. 'How do you expect me to make fun of it after that?'

'To start with, you could tell me that none of those boring sad compositions should be played in your honour.'

'True that,' Shouyou says, dashing a hand under his eyes, laughing again, thickly. 'I'm going to kill Tsukki for that, actually. He promised me he'd take good care of you. Why's he letting you make all this gloomy old music?' 

'Have I ever listened to him?' 

'You haven't, I guess. You've never listened to anyone.'

'Should've listened to you.' He keeps playing to fill the silence he knows will follow, just until he can find the next words to say. Hasn't spent seven years screaming himself hoarse at the sky to be silent when it finally talks back. 'Should've done a lot of things. Playing that piece tonight was the least I could do.'

'Least you could do.' Shouyou raises a finger, plays a lone key, laughs again when Tobio smacks his hand out of the way. Matryoshka dolls of memories, twenty-seven and twenty-eight, but twenty and nineteen and eighteen inside. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen. Somewhere, Tobio is still twenty and in a love like a riptide. 'To do what?' 

'To apologise,' he whispers. 'For not walking with you.' _For leaving you behind._ 'For not catching up.' _For letting you go so easily._ 'For just standing there.' 

'For not growing up with me?' Shouyou asks.

'For not growing up with you.' For buying every single one of Shouyou's albums, for listening to the studio version of _And Now Here_ and thinking it didn't hold a candle to the original, the one Shouyou didn't have all the lyrics to yet, the one whose melodies he filled by singing out the ingredients of soup packets, singing out the names of his favourite fruits, singing Tobio's name until he came up with better words. _Monosodium glutamate, Bonito extract. Strawberries, dragonfruit, ba-na-na. Tobio, Tobio, To-bi-o. And now you, for me, here, who could steal you from me._ For not going to a single concert. For not knowing a single one of Shouyou's friends. For not being able to explain to Miya how he could've dropped the sun like a stack of plates. 

For not knowing if planes flew over the Pacific ocean. 'For not coming to the airport.' 

He stops playing. This silence has its own right to exist. And it does. Lives out a life of forty-nine seconds, before Shouyou's restless fingers fall on the keys again, stumbling. They are close enough to kiss. He is close enough to kiss.

'It was a beautiful concert,' he says. 'I hope you'll invite me to one again.'

✶

(Two days later, Kei wakes him up at eight in the morning by calling him thrice in a row. Tobio takes thirty seconds to curse him out while he fumbles around to get out of bed. Decides against it, flops back down. Hears Kei light up a cigarette.  


'What the hell did you pull on Saturday night? They don't even have a _name_ for the last piece you played. You just had to go mad genius on them, didn't you. Couldn't have ended the tour peacefully.' 

'It was for a special guest,' Tobio says. 'VIP. You can't even imagine how VIP.'  


'I don't care if it was Rachmaninov himself,' Kei huffs. 'It's not like you to change the setlist like that. I'm bringing dinner tonight, so you'd better be ready for a two-hour interrogation.'  


'Did anyone call you?'  


'What kind of question is that?'  


'Never mind,' Tobio says. Raises an arm and frames his fingers around the stretch of curtains behind which the morning should be waiting. Squints into the light he just made up in his head. Drops the arm. Smiles. 'Dinner sounds great.')


	11. september 27, 3:15 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warning:** this chapter contains a scene where two characters get physically intimate, and it’s cut short by one of them having a panic attack. the action stops immediately (no non-consensual activity) but the symptoms leading up to it are described. 
> 
> this part is skippable, but the conversation that follows is not, so here are the skipping guidelines: when you reach “for a second a strange and unpleasant burning rises in his gut”, please ctrl + F and skip to “at least it went south gently”. 
> 
> **additional warnings:** heavy hazing-style recreational drinking.

**Kei [21:19]  
**I thought absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder?  
Not reveal the extent to which one can be annoying even over distances.

**Me [21:22]  
**Now, don’t be cruel  
I haven’t seen you in a so long  
I’m about to die all over again

In retrospect (as much of it is possible given that the event was ten hours ago), they should’ve considered not murdering Daichi at noon before he’d even had lunch, even if it _is_ his stag night. In Tetsurou’s defence, it was Koutarou who opened the first bottle of soju, and Michimiya who tipped it down Daichi’s throat singing some old drinking song surely come from their mountain hideout of a hometown. The rest, as they say, is history— inasmuch as history is Daichi stumbling around drunk out of his mind in Koutarou and Akaashi’s living room before they’ve so much as left for the bar. He’s lucky it’s owned by his friends; no one else’d let him in, in this state.

Tetsurou puts his phone away just in time for the Daichi-craft to land on him. Dodges successfully so that his left side is safe, does it quickly so Daichi doesn’t realise. He doesn’t; just settles on the couch, head thrown back, eyes so shiny it’s going to take two full days for him to recover from this. It doesn’t stop him from singing along to the chorus of whatever nonsense party song’s come up in Koutarou’s playlist now, their stupid expensive (not to mention pretentious) surround sound not helping his drunkenness at all.

‘Poor man,’ Tetsurou says, patting his shoulder. ‘And you don’t even know what’s waiting at the bar.’

‘Please,’ Daichi scoffs, slurring even that single word. ‘Bring it on. I’m not even tipsy.’

‘Sure, whatever you say.’

In retrospect (this time with sufficient distance from the event— though one month is less on the side of sufficient and more on the side of agonising) had Tetsurou been aware of the singular determination with which his brain would only think about Tsukishima Kei after it, he’d never have taken that phone call back in August. Hell, if he’d known that Kei would just— casually let him know the next day that he’d be going home for a full month, he’d never have taken that phone call. See, he can deal with only thinking about one thing for extended periods of time. But thinking about it, and not being able to have it for that long? Tetsurou would gladly exchange the deliciousness of desire to be able to see Kei before him again, see him do that thing where he’ll put a hand on Tetsurou’s wrist and stop him on his path, saying _listen. Do you hear it?_

It’s a little pathetic if he thinks about it, that between his routine medical check-up and the awkward timing of the cheapest train to Sendai, he wasn’t even able to see Kei off at the station. No— the last time he saw him was in his office, listening to that song of Hinata’s, with a hundred everythings twirling between them in the afternoon air and nowhere for them to go. That they were even able to keep up their constant stream of exchanges through the month is testament to either Tetsurou’s denial, Kei’s patience, or both. That Tetsurou isn’t spontaneously combusting at the knowledge of Kei being in Tokyo again, testament to his general loathing of things like spontaneous combustion. (Never again.)

‘Tetsu, help!’ Koutarou calls from the bedroom. ‘Can’t pick a shirt.’

Tetsurou groans, too lazy to stand up. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘Taking out the trash which he should’ve thrown you into. Will you _come_.’

He rolls his eyes but makes a great effort to peel himself off the couch, sticks his head into the kitchen to narrow his eyes at Michimiya, who’s shotgunning another spiked iced tea by the looks of it while Azumane films gleefully. Sure enough, in the bedroom, Koutarou’s standing shirtless with his hands on his hips, staring down at the three shirts laid out on the bed. Two of them look all right, plain black and plain white. The third one is electric blue with ridiculously vivid tigers printed all over.

‘Third,’ Tetsurou says immediately. ‘And give it to me tomorrow. It’s mine now.’

‘Knew you’d pick it. Asahi’s latest, go thank him.’

It’s music, laughter, anticipation. Ushijima, Morisuke and Kenma are waiting at the bar, and from the solemn selfie that Tetsurou received before dinner, Terushima’s got something completely illegal up his sleeve which he’s going to make Daichi suffer with. For the moment though, Daichi remains blissfully oblivious of it, going by how happily he’s busting out the world’s worst dance moves all by himself on the coffee table when Tetsurou returns to the living room.

Once he’s done sending his incriminating footage of it to Kei, he settles back on the couch to properly enjoy the show. Daichi’s playing air guitar now, then singing into an invisible mic, the veins on his throat straining, then doing— what looks like a K-Pop girl group dance. Oh, God, it is. It’s called _TT_ or something, which would be bad enough on its own if the song playing in the background wasn’t some fucking DJ Snake number. Tetsurou pulls his phone out again and sends up a prayer that Koutarou never decides to get married. If this is Daichi, pushing thirty, on a day full of booze, he doesn’t want to know what _Koutarou_ is capable of.

**Kei [21:45]  
**Oh, God. I can safely say that my party is more presentable than yours.

**Me [21:48]  
**Right? I do wish you could see this in person though  
Well  
I wish I could see you in person, more like  
Sorry, that’s the beer talking  
You know how avid of a drinker I am

Just then Daichi stops dancing, and in the same move sits heavily on the table, staring daggers at Tetsurou.

‘Yes?’ Tetsurou asks.

‘Where’s Koushi?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Koushi,’ Daichi says, thundering serious. ‘I miss him. Where is he?’

Tetsurou stares at him for a full minute before giving up and falling back against the couch cushions, throwing his hands up in the air with a theatrical groan, not his first, and definitely not his last, of the night.

✶✶✶

Noya-san opens the door mid-laugh, still looking over his shoulder. He’s at least three beers in, going by the way he smiles like hell when he spots Tobio. Tobio can’t help but smile back a little, waving him off as he steps in, sits down to unlace his shoes. He can hear the unmistakeable sound of a loud, obnoxious guitar down the small hallway, and laughter, and clapping, rhythmic. 

Looks like he’s right on time.

The sound of the lively chords gets louder as he steps into the living room. It’s been done up, every inch covered in strings and strings of lights, colourful little lanterns over each bulb. They throw the room into a bright gold-rainbow glow. He can smell sweets and wine— this is Suga-san’s stag night all right, nothing about it even a bit like one. Sure enough, Suga-san’s stepping out of the kitchen with a fresh tray of something or the other, setting it on the drinks table before rushing to Tobio. He looks happier than Tobio’s ever seen him, which is saying something. There’s not been a day in his life that he _hasn’t_ seen Suga-san happy. This is different, like he’s just realised that he’s getting married in two weeks, and he’s making a guest list in his head all over again. 

‘Fashionably late!’ Suga-san cries, but he’s already dragging Tobio to where everyone’s sitting, mostly on the floor, and in a circle around— of course. In the middle of it all, Shouyou, who’s always made things about himself, but in the best of ways, like the sun, or the wind, blasting in at any random moment to remind you the world still turns. He’s sitting on the coffee table, one leg bent under himself, the other tapping to the beat they’re giving him. Leaning forward with his guitar and holding the gaze of everyone sitting around him in turns. 

_What does the seeker seek?_

Tanaka-san’s putting all of his high school band memories to use as he slams away at the wood of the table with a pair of spatulas, while Noya-san’s clapping drowns out almost everyone else. It’s no different from the trouble they used to spark up on the terrace of the sports building, holding jam sessions like they were eighties rockstars until the principal came to yell at them to get off, then jumping from one low roof to another, before scrambling down the side of the volleyball gym. Tobio remembers how Noya-san had ripped his jacket on an open window once, hanging there for a split-second before falling in a heap on the dusty ground, all the time while Shouyou continued playing his guitar, running backwards from the teachers, and Suga-san screamed with laughter. _The seeker roams, street to street_.

Shouyou sees him perch on the armrest of the couch next to Yachi, but doesn’t say anything, only looks Tobio in the eye, all music and light for a second. Turns away. His lips stretch a little further around their singing smile, or that might just be Tobio, hearing him live for only the second time this year, since they were twenty. _The seven rainbow colours, the language of hummingbirds. He walks in the sun, carries a bag full of shade_. His voice is open and strong, full of laughter. He’s never once changed the way he sang, after all, and he doesn’t care who’s in the room, who’s listening. 

It doesn’t seem like the rest of them care, either. Kei _did_ interrogate Tobio for two hours after the concert, and at the end of it had nothing to say but _well, be careful,_ which means nothing to Tobio. If he was being careful he wouldn’t be sitting here listening to Shouyou sing as if he’s _always_ been sitting here, listening to him sing. And— Shouyou isn’t being careful either. Is he?

No, Tobio’s the least of his problems, which is more than he could say for himself. _What does the seeker seek? I know it’s right around here— he lives right around here somewhere, I know_.

The balcony door slides open and Kei steps in, post-smoke calm on his face but a wine flush high on his cheeks anyway. He’s already had two glasses— sends a narrow-eyed smile to Tobio instead of just raising his chin in greeting. Comes to lean next to him, fingers tugging a strand of Tobio’s hair. Tobio swats at him as Shouyou passes to the second chorus, the lyrics as brazen as the chords. A song full of bravado. _The seeker roams laughing, the seeker roams crying, the seeker roams, street to street_.

_Seeker— everyone’s, seeker— no one to call his own. Seeker, roaming street to street_.

✶✶✶

The bar hasn’t been this alive since summer. Every light a strategic point of green or gold in the frantic dark, the sheer fucking chaos that is Sawamura Daichi’s stag night, finally. The man of honour has recovered from his third drunk peak of the day— get some water in him, he’s going again, as if he hasn’t aged a day beyond their graduation, back when Tetsurou could keep up with him.

There’s a different kind of fun in watching and knowing he’ll still remember everything the others will have forgotten in the morning. For a long time, Tetsurou thought that being the permanent designated driver was a sort of exile from the revelry of it all, had even let it slip, unwittingly, to Suga once. They were both leaning against the counter and watching Ushijima turn twenty-seven like he hadn’t been born fifty years old.

Suga had turned to Tetsurou, eyes light but serious, and he’d smiled.

 _I don’t drink either, though_ , he’d said, then motioned to where Ushijima was smiling, small and shy, at whatever Koutarou was excitedly telling him. _Nor does he. Nor does Kenma. We’re just fine, aren’t we?_

 _I guess_ , Tetsurou had conceded after a second, unable to articulate why he didn’t quite agree. As always, Suga had caught on.

 _I know it’s not the same_ , he’d said, gentle; Tetsurou used to be skittish back then. _Because we made that choice. You didn’t have a choice, which changes everything. And I know it can’t be easy to adjust to that. Not just drinking. Everything. But I’m here to help. Not we. I. Being fit is in my job description! Before you know it you’ll be drinking kale smoothies in the morning and rice tea in the evening_.

Still— for a long time, Tetsurou used it as one more excuse to remove himself from activity. Now that he wants back in, he refuses to let it be a barrier. Especially not tonight, not right now. Daichi’s getting married, and Tetsurou’s the best man, fuck. Despite all of his attempts, all his kicking and squirming and struggle, his friends really did drag him right into the middle of it all, refusing to let go of his ankles for even a second. Refusing to let him go.

Terushima’s gotten water (and then some, going from that incredibly shady-looking plastic glass he quite literally pulled out of his blazer) into Daichi; he’s going again. Trying to climb onto a barstool and nearly breaking his chin on it, all self-righteous and pompous as he straightens up, chin high, _no one saw that_. Tetsurou sure did, and what’s more, so did his phone, and hence so will Kei. By extension, so will Suga, laughing behind his hand, eyes crescents of mirth.

Ah, God. Tetsurou wants to dance.

Just like that, he drops the lime he was slicing, runs one last check to make sure Morisuke isn’t bullying Inuoka too much. He isn’t; he’s too busy “taste-testing” his fifth mixer of the night while Inuoka hunts for something in the cooling unit, doubtlessly for Daichi, who’s now hanging over the counter and yelling something at him. All clear.

Tetsurou lifts the wooden partition and lets it slam down behind him, wipes his hands on his jeans as he sprints up the stairs, skips two, three at a time. Nearly tramples Kenma who’s sitting on the very last one, tapping away on his phone. After receiving a category 5 glare, Tetsurou ruffles his hair and finally makes his way over to where everyone is. Ushijima safe on the couch with that redhead whose name Tetsurou still hasn’t learned, Michimiya standing on a cushion next to him, wobbling dangerously, not letting it stop her from baptising the dancers with her drink. Tetsurou heaves a great sigh as she sticks her stirrer into her glass then flicks it out towards them, most of it landing on Koutarou and Akaashi, who’re…certainly dancing. Koutarou’s arms around Akaashi’s waist, Akaashi’s around his neck, foreheads pressed together, then lips.

Thoughtless and too full of buzzing to care, Tetsurou comes to stand next to them, taps both their shoulders, grins shamelessly when they pull apart.

‘Me, too,’ he says, fake-petulant, then laughing in alarm as they drag him in immediately. Before he knows it Akaashi’s arms are around his neck instead while Koutarou wolf-whistles from the couch, and their feet are moving without missing a beat. The beat is loud all through his body but this he’s used to; dancing, too, he’s used to, even though he does it less now than before.

But he wants back in. He wants back in everywhere, all at once, tonight. He could do anything tonight— run a marathon, down a shot, walk through every metal detector at an airport. Smash the neon red lamp and crush the glass into dust. Haul Akaashi closer into his arms and kiss his forehead, which he can do right now, so he does. Akaashi laughs and leans back, raises his eyebrows, switches moves as the song changes. Behind him Tetsurou sees Terushima trip over Kenma too, cursing and going straight to the floor. Laughs loudly.

‘Shut up,’ Terushima snaps. ‘Everyone down. We’re unwrapping Sawamura’s present.’

‘Uncorking, more like,’ Morisuke calls from downstairs. ‘Last one downstairs has to shotgun the whole thing.’

It’s precisely midnight when they open the cheapest bottle of rum this bar has ever seen, the one they used to buy back in college, drinking it in plastic glasses and not giving a single shit about how horrible it tasted. Daichi roars with laughter when he sees it, and takes it upon himself to serve everyone though he can barely make out his own hands. Tetsurou even takes a sip, so shocked by everything the taste brings back that he actually freezes in place for a second.

‘ _Disgusting_ ,’ Morisuke says. ‘You really drank this crap? God, you had to be broke as hell, all of you.’

By thirty minutes past midnight every single one of them is drunk, save Tetsurou and Inuoka, always his bravest soldier. At some point Koutarou suddenly remembers that Tetsurou wanted his shirt, and decides that making an exchange in the middle of the bar is the best way to go about giving it to him. Azumane declares that the shirt has found its rightful owner, which throws Koutarou into a short-lived but acute phase of dejection until Azumane explains that it’s because Tetsurou is a brunet, or something, the details escape him.

He unthinkingly sends Kei the selfie he takes to commemorate the switching of the shirts, and doesn’t realise how it looks— the shirt, only half-buttoned, Tetsurou, sweaty and too happy to hide it for the camera, the angle— until Kei replies.

**Kei [00:58]  
**Now that’s something I’d actually be interested in witnessing in person.  
Wine talking, of course.

And, well, Tetsurou wants back in everywhere. He could do anything tonight.

**Me [01:02]  
** We could make that happen  
Couldn’t we?

✶✶✶

He crosses Shimizu-san on his way to the kitchen. She’s holding five whole bottles of beer, and what’s more, they’re all open. Tobio takes a second to gape at her powers before stepping in to join Suga-san.

He’s crouched by the fridge, squeaking as he pulls out a frozen tub. Ice cream, it looks like, as if there aren’t enough things outside. He’s ridiculous, but that’s not surprising. He’s always been like this. It’s not for nothing that the piece Tobio’s been working on is called _dreambird_. The first thing he’d noticed about Suga-san all those years ago was how light his feet were. That’d mean nothing in itself if he wasn’t moving to a hundred different places with them, all the time. Flitting from person to person and place to place and barely settling down before he was off again. Always the one to tiptoe into sleeping quarters on school trips, laying KitKat bars on the floor next to each futon, then sneaking back out. Always the one to make sure everyone’s fine, everyone’s having a good time. But even if that’s him, it’s different tonight, and that’s why Tobio’s here.

‘Suga-san,’ he says, trying to read what the tub says through the thin layer of freezer-frost on it. ‘I’m sorry, but can’t you just relax and enjoy the party for once? It’s your _stag night_.’

Suga-san looks up and raises his eyebrows, laughs. ‘This _is_ my way of enjoying, isn’t it? There’s nothing more fun than trying to pry open a frozen sarcophagus while Noya slashes his vocal chords like they’re his dad’s car tires.’

Tobio laughs too. That’s one way of putting it. ‘I know, it’s just—’

Suga-san drops the tub, walks around the counter to stand in front of him. Reaches up and tugs at his nose while Tobio squawks at his cold fingers.

‘It’s all my favourite people in the same room, laughing and singing,’ he says softly, then. ‘What more could I ask for other than to feed them well?’

Suddenly there’s a lump in Tobio’s throat. Is life that simple for Suga-san because it just is, or because he makes it that way? Is that all there is to it? To be able to have them all under one roof again, no strangers, and make music like he wanted to the day he begged the teachers at their tiny village school to let him form a club?

He knows that before anything else, music’s always been about community for Suga-san. The fact that he’s a breathing magical creature when he dances has no importance to him— all he cares about is making others dance. Letting them dance. Just like back then when he’d pull whatever he had to so that the dancers could train— just like now, when he’ll get tears in his eyes every year, every single time Tobio makes a donation to his school and others in Tokyo. And— what does he play for, Tobio, then?

There’s no need to ask Shouyou that question— Tobio can still hear him yelling out some silly anime ending that was popular when they were twelve, probably doing theatrics with his guitar that make even Yachi laugh. Shouyou sings to make the moment about himself, remind others that the sun is up there. Live every single thing he lives to its very last fibres until nothing’s left but sound.

There’s no need to ask Kei that question either. He’s never once opened his mouth about the _why_ of what he does. It’s almost like he thinks it’s so obvious that it doesn’t need to be said, and that’s in itself his answer.

And— Tobio? _I’m going to kill Tsukki. Why’s he letting you make all this gloomy old music?_

He smiles down at Suga-san. ‘I mean, it’s not _all_ your favourite people, right? I think you’re missing at least one very favourite person.’

Suga-san rolls his eyes, tugs his nose again. Outside, singing. ‘You brat. Now come open this tub for me.’

✶✶✶

The task of getting Daichi back to Koutarou and Akaashi’s place before he ends up on _Shibuya meltdown_ has never felt faster or slower. Tetsurou’s watching them all spill out of his car laughing and singing, yes, but he’s long since flown off somewhere else. He keeps thinking about it, about the night and the breeze and what music he’s going to put on when he drives off from here, even as he herds Koutarou, Akaashi and Daichi into the elevator, raising an apologetic hand to the night receptionist, who only waves them off with a laugh. He keeps thinking about it as he gets Daichi into bed with a bottle of water on the nightstand, as he hears Koutarou whine and Akaashi bicker from the kitchen.

He keeps thinking about it— so much so that it isn’t until he’s only five minutes from Kei’s apartment, that he realises he forgot to put on any music at all. It’s late but it’s Saturday; there are other cars outside, and if he strains he can even hear the occasional dirty beat flash by as someone decidedly younger speeds past. He’s still smiling about it by the time he pulls into the parking Kei told him about, only stopping once he sends a text and leans back in his seat, taking a deep breath. Here, it’s mostly residential buildings; surreal suburban silence. All of this feels surreal, down to the shirt he’s still wearing, like he’s temporarily slipped into someone else’s life. Someone decidedly younger, yes, who can drive around big bright Tokyo at two in the morning just to see a single person.

There’s tapping on the driver’s side window, gentle enough not to make Tetsurou jump out of his skin. Kei looks ghostly pale under the streetlight, rightful of his name, and he’s just beyond this layer of glass and metal, and Tetsurou hasn’t seen him in so long he really might die again.

Just to be contrary, he rolls the window down, and cocks an eyebrow. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You have four seconds to stop being a smartass and get out. I’m in house slippers.’

When Tetsurou closes the door and turns around, the threat of Tsukishima Kei becomes real all at once. He _is_ in house slippers, the ridiculous man, but still has his dress pants and shirt on, even his wristwatch. He is tall and handsome and here, now, after having asked Tetsurou _what are you listening for_ and going right back to talking about southern folk songs. He smells like that impossible thing again, and this time it goes right to Tetsurou’s head like pins and needles, and he finds himself leaning against the car to steady himself. Kei, if he knows, doesn’t let on.

It turns into one of their walks, long overdue, without either of them having to say anything. It’s maybe two minutes to Kei’s building, but it feels so, so much longer than that. Long enough for Tetsurou to acquaint himself with the sounds of the neighbourhood as if it’ll be his last time here. (He hopes it won’t be his last time here.) Long enough for him to consider grabbing Kei’s hand thrice. Long enough for him to make up a song in his head, too new to interest his beloved professor. Long enough for him to roll his eyes at himself for thinking _beloved professor._

‘I acknowledge the shirt, by the way,’ Kei says when they’re by the entrance. ‘I just need to see it in better lighting before passing the final judgement.’

‘Oh, professor. I’m all nervous now.’

At that, Kei turns to look at him, holds his gaze to make sure Tetsurou’s paying attention. His eyes are so, so amber, and he is here now. Tetsurou could do anything tonight.

Then Kei— smirks. ‘Good.’

✶✶✶

When Shouyou joins him on the balcony, he’s still thinking about it. It’s been hours and then some— Kei left at two and that was at least an hour ago. Things are finally quieting down, the dancing and singing replaced by soft talk. Yamaguchi’s nodded off, glass still in his hand. Yachi and Shimizu-san have this glint in their eyes that tells Tobio they’re discussing what they’ll be wearing to the wedding. Tanaka-san’s just about done crying, too, so it won’t be long before he leaves. Suga-san’s already making Noya-san’s bed in the guest room.

The night is cold this late into September, making him shiver even through his sweater. But Shouyou, who’s never been cold a day in his life, is still in a light loose shirt. Buttons always open too far, and the moon bright on the single silver hoop in his left ear as he comes to lean against the rail beside Tobio, looking out into the autumn mess of the city, counting windows, following cars.

There’s something strange about him, until Tobio realises it’s because the last time they were together, like this, hidden away from a party in mutual silence, was forever ago. And at the same time, this isn’t like anything they used to have before. None of it is, and maybe that’s the hardest bit of all— that he keeps thinking about how things used to be, and doesn’t know how they can be now. And— how can they be, now? Tobio feels like he’s hurtled headfirst into a change so huge he can’t even realise it’s happening, like he’s caught in the unmoving eye of a storm, the colours around him moving so fast they become one single wall of sound. A wall of sound, yes, like the sweaty never-cold guitarist leaning against the rail next to him.

‘How did Tsukki’s birthday go?’ Shouyou asks suddenly.

Tobio blinks, gathers himself. ‘Uh— he was up in Karumai all month, actually. Used up like a decade’s leave to go see Akiteru-niisan. Though I do know they got so drunk their mom threw them out to sleep in the backyard.’

Shouyou bursts into laughter, then claps a hand over his mouth, realising how loud he was right in the middle of the night. Tobio looks away, swallows, then looks back.

‘Do you remember when he turned seventeen and we got him that—’

‘That fucking dinosaur suit, yeah,’ Shouyou cuts in, snorting again. ‘Oh my God, didn’t we make him wear it in front of that girl he liked? Shit, what was her name?’

‘Momoi? I think it was Momoi.’ An _ah, that’s right_. Tobio remembers nothing from that day, but the dinosaur suit meant roughly eight photos were taken per second, so he only needs to go home and plug in his drive for it all to come back.

‘Not like he had a chance with her anyway,’ Shouyou says. ‘He was so unbearable back then.’

‘As opposed to the angel he is today, yeah,’ Tobio replies drily. It makes Shouyou laugh again, looking down, then up at the sky. ‘If anything he’s gotten worse.’

‘He’s nicer to _me_ , at any rate. If he isn’t to you that’s your problem.’

‘Hey!’ But Tobio’s trying not to laugh, and he feels just a little less cold. Takes a deep breath while he arranges the next sentence he wants to say. Maybe he can’t see anything from the eye of the storm, but he can— take to the leaks in the dam one by one. Figure out what’s flowing through. Metaphors.

Tobio takes a deep breath, lets it out.

‘I— I like it better when we talk about right now,’ he says. ‘Every time, it’s like— we talk about those same five years over and over as if it’s the only thing we have in common.’ It doesn’t really come out right. He wants to say— every time, they talk about those five years, and then the seven that followed, as if the only thing between them is _them_ , and not the hundred other things that brought them together in the first place. Doesn’t like that they feed off that five years’ worth of shared memories, and then the seven years of shared separation, every time they try to talk. Isn’t there something else?

Something more important? Music?

‘Sorry,’ he says, when Shouyou doesn’t answer. ‘It’s just—’ _I want to tell you about other things. About how Oikawa-san’s the best conductor I’ve ever worked with. How Hoshiumi’d love you so much I think you two’d elope the day you meet. How it feels seeing a real orchestra perform. How silly this one half-Russian violinist I met was, but how he was a beast when he picked up his bow. How I caught Uehara Hiromi at an aftershow once. It blew my mind. I could never play like that_.

Tobio’s been around the world. He wants to tell Shouyou about everything, and then hear about how Shouyou’s been around the world too. About the people he’s met. About every singer he’s collaborated with, about that English number he did for a Netflix special. About Miya Atsumu the long-suffering stage technician. About this version of Kei, unknown to Tobio, who’s nicer to Shouyou now.

‘Sorry,’ he says again, but Shouyou shakes his head.

‘No, you’re right,’ he says. ‘It’s just— I thought for the longest time that you didn’t want me to be part of your present. I guess I’m just getting used to that not being true.’

And that— that, when Tobio thought all those years ago that Shouyou didn’t want him to be part of his future— that stings. When Tobio wanted so badly to keep Shouyou in his present forever, held on so tight, that Shouyou slipped free from his grasp and went careening across the Pacific ocean. And how fucking stupid of Tobio, to give him that ultimatum. _Leave me today, leave me forever. I want you so bad right now, I’m ready not to have you tomorrow_.

And then again, was Tobio really supposed to have him? Everything Shouyou is today, dancing back into Tobio’s present, he is because he left, and left Tobio. Maybe that’s it— Tobio’s roamed the world because no one held him back. Shouyou’s roamed the world because he shed Tobio from his back. Like moulting feathers. Free.

‘I think— time blurs,’ Tobio says. ‘It’s— when I see you I turn twenty again.’ Forever in love. ‘I want to be twenty-seven too.’

‘Yeah,’ Shouyou replies quietly. Then again after a pause. ‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah,’ he echoes.

They say nothing. Behind them the chatter in the living room calms down to near-silence, and at one point when Tobio turns around to check, he realises that almost everyone’s gone but Shimizu-san, who’s picking up the last of the bottles. She catches his eye and holds a finger to her lips, then points to the hallway. God, what time is it? Too late to be out here in the cold.

But then Shouyou turns too, and huffs a soft laugh, then looks up at him. So direct and discerning.

‘Well, Mister Twenty-Seven, how about I give you a little live of my latest hits? You know, to be in the present. Update you a bit.’

Tobio stares at him. And though he’s got no reason to be sure of Tobio anymore, Shouyou’s never not been sure of _himself_.

He winks and adds, ‘Free of charge.’

✶✶✶

He lives on some double-digit floor, his door the seventh one in an endless-looking hallway. By the time they get inside and he turns the entry light on, Tetsurou’s whole being is thrumming with bloodbuzz. It’s all he can do to get his shoes off and breathe.

And then Kei turns to look at him and doesn’t hide for a second how carefully he’s doing it. His eyes have always been as guarded as they’re gorgeous; Tetsurou’s never been able to tell from them alone what he’s thinking. No, Kei is like the mysterious city his scent always reminds Tetsurou of: untraceable unless you visit everyday, unknowable until you decide to live there. Tetsurou has to take stock of every sound of his, every breath, then add it to what he can glean from his gaze, then extrapolate it to the careful motion of his hands, not a movement wasted.

Kei isn’t wasting a single movement right now, as he looks at Tetsurou. Up, and down, eyes stopping on where the buttons of the stupid fucking shirt are open, where Tetsurou knows his collarbone must be glistening with nervous sweat, then moving up to the motion of his throat as he swallows.

‘Approved,’ he says, then, and Tetsurou actually goes weak against the door. He feels it in his knees as he leans back against the cool wood, one hand splaying out against it, and wonders how on earth it came to this. He looks beyond Kei’s shoulder to avoid meeting his eyes, tries to retain the details of his apartment that are visible, doesn’t succeed. Comes back to Kei, leaning tall over him, so clear and intent that it makes something jump in Tetsurou’s throat.

‘Well, then,’ he says, laughing a little. ‘Be gentle, Tsukishima-san. I have a weak heart.’

He is. Still in his house slippers and fancy clothes, and Tetsurou still in an electric blue shirt with tigers printed on it. He puts his hands on Tetsurou’s jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, and leans in, eyes closed.

The kiss is so gentle, in fact, that Tetsurou barely feels it at first; can only tell what happened by the sound of Kei exhaling like he’s been holding his breath all autumn. Just like Tetsurou, then, who inhales that exhale and brings his own arms around Kei, presses closer, away from the solidity of the door. Then it’s less gentle all of a sudden; both aware simultaneously of the reality of the moment, both, remembering that they’ve held their breath all autumn. Both listening for it.

It’s here.

Less gentle, now. Kei pressing him back into the door, Tetsurou’s fingers curling into that long light hair finally, mouths slipping open, all heat, all silk. Silence has never been this graceful, kiss-sounds never so sweet. Tetsurou wonders if this is a symphony that could interest his beloved professor, then stops wondering about things at all. There is no time; the night will end at any moment, and all they’re doing is dancing around the hundred possible moments where it could’ve ended already but didn’t, endless paths of quantum immortality diverging from this one endless second, endless neon red lamps extinguished and extinguished and extinguished. Tetsurou can’t remember the last time he felt so acutely alive and aware of himself. Can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this.

In another life, he never got here. In this one, he refuses to be anywhere else. He wants in. He wants in. He’s wanted Tsukishima Kei all autumn and then some, a backlog of indie film awakenings. Lamp after lamp after lamp, parallel lines of red stars.

‘I’m sorry, Kuroo-san,’ Kei whispers against his lips. ‘I can’t give you a tour of the place right now. We’ll have to take a shortcut.’

Tetsurou laughs in disbelief, almost; it comes out more tender than he intended; Kei pulls back to _smile_ down at him, eyes and all. How could anyone ever look at him like that? How could he have thought that he’d pass Kei by, no music, no panoramic shots? Tetsurou’ll take every shortcut in the world, run three marathons in one.

He doesn’t get to see what Kei’s study looks like, or if he has one at all. They fumble through small narrow spaces only lit up in gold at the very edges from the entry lamp, Tetsurou’s eyes nearly closed, trusting only sound and Kei. The sliding open of a door, the sliding closed of it. The strange heavy universal quiet of bedrooms. The soft edge of a bed against the backs of his knees, then the warm brightness of a table lamp.

Tetsurou lies back against the pillows and watches as Kei pauses to put the slippers away properly, laughs, then laughs more as Kei narrows his eyes in reply. Every single one of his idiosyncrasies is thrown into such benevolent relief right now, that not a single one could deter the kindling in Tetsurou’s chest from catching. He wants, he loves, he— loves, oh.

The lamp flickers. Tetsurou ignores it.

‘Come here already,’ he says, voice too hoarse to be anything but honest. ‘I’m dying.’

‘You aren’t special, so are we all,’ Kei replies, and that makes Tetsurou laugh so hard his head falls back against the pillows. He has no time to consider the ceiling before Kei’s climbing over him, all long limbs and heady scent, and then his lips are on Tetsurou’s again, forming words in the humming dark. ‘So am I.’

Their hands, hungry and searching, go everywhere. Kei’s shoulders shifting so that Tetsurou can pull his shirt off without breaking the kiss, then Tetsurou, back arching off the bed as long fingers work at the buttons of his own. Kei doesn’t take it off completely, lets it fall open, cool air raising gooseflesh on his chest before it’s replaced by the warmth of palms.

‘Keep it on,’ he murmurs, and Tetsurou smiles against his teeth before kissing the corner of his mouth, biting at his jaw, thumbs pressing into his temples. Sees the open way in which Kei looks at his surgery scar then turns away, as if he isn’t allowed. Tetsurou, tonight, could allow him everything.

He keeps it on; it’s here. He can feel his pulse beating against wherever else Kei’s lips land; under his ear, the hollow of his throat, the insides of his wrists. Even in the spaces where Kei’s fingertips fit between his ribs, like a hollow thin-skinned drum that might explode at any moment. At any moment, explode, explode, explode. Breaths coming faster now every time they move their hips together, the layers between them doing nothing to help, then Kei’s hands around both of his wrists, fingers so long they wrap around completely. There Tetsurou feels Kei’s pulse too, every bit as real and thundering as his own, and it gives him pause.

For a second a strange and unpleasant burning rises in his gut; he presses it back down and screws his eyes shut. It persists; he fights, and despite himself feels that pulse take over all of his skin and under it too, marching troops of blood cells— head, temples, throat, sternum, chest, stomach, abdomen, thighs, the insides of his knees, the soles of his feet. Hands. Wrists. Palms. Tetsurou is too alive— Tetsurou is too aware of himself— the lamp flickers— he ignores it— Kei is kissing him, the only thing that matters, because Tetsurou could do anything tonight, even if it’s anything but this.

But then— Kei shifts his hips and gets an arm under Tetsurou, and when the pleasure spikes and Tetsurou lets out a moan, he realises. His pulse spikes— he realises— it’s his pulse. It’s _his_ pulse, spiking, mounting, speeding up, drumming drumming drumming— the pulse is only a sound—

The pulse is only a sound— the heart is the instrument— his heart— it’s his heart, it’s _his_ heart hammering against the inside of his chest, wild and out of control—

The lamp lights up angry neon red— cracks—

‘Kei, I can’t,’ he gasps, tearing away. ‘Oh my God, I’m scared. I can’t.’

He’s going to cry. He’s going to scream. He’s going to faint. Is this it? What a fucking way to go out. Blue tiger shirt, Kei on top of him.

But then— Kei jumps back as if thrown, hands in the air, and looking down at Tetsurou with such worry in his eyes that everything sinks a degree. Because it’s here— it’s here. There it is. He’s doing that to someone.

There are three people in this room suddenly: Tetsurou, Kei, and Tetsurou’s heart.

‘It’s okay,’ Kei says, slowly, softly; Tetsurou is winded and skittish and fucking petrified. ‘It’s okay, Tetsurou. We’ve stopped. We’ll stop.’ He is so unbelievably beautiful, knees still on either side of Tetsurou’s hips, half of him lit up by the nightlight, shirtless, chest heaving just a little like his body hasn’t realised yet that Tetsurou’s gone and fucked it all up by having a body of his own. ‘Hey, are you with me?’

Tetsurou is unfortunately with him. He takes a deep breath and feels waves of cold pinpricks travel from the buried epicentre of his chest as his pulse finally starts to slow. There is painful tinnitus in his ears; his lips are tingling. His vision is just the slightest bit blurred, but he blinks to clear it; it works. He runs a hand through his hair, then again, then again.

At least it went south gently, he thinks as he straightens up, hysterical, calm. Yes, it’s gentle, the way Kei shifts to sit to the side, hands flexing on the sheets as if he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore when they were so sure of themselves seconds ago. They were both so sure of themselves seconds ago, Tetsurou who wanted to run three marathons in one and Kei who thought, maybe, that this was it, finally. That this was it.

‘Can I get you something?’ he asks quietly, and Tetsurou scoffs. ‘Water? Sugar?’

Tetsurou doesn’t want water or sugar. He wants to go back in time and stay dead. Because now Kei’s being careful and light-fingered and gentle in ways he was never supposed to be, and he looks like he so badly wants to smoke, gather his thoughts, but he never does that around Tetsurou— and that’s just one more thing, isn’t it. That’s just one more thing.

‘You can smoke if you want, you know,’ he says, ignoring Kei’s confused frown. ‘It’s your fucking apartment.’

‘I don’t need to smoke. I’m asking if _you_ need something—’

‘Nothing you can get me,’ he snaps, then recoils at the sound of his own voice. Kei— refuses to let any hurt show in those careful eyes, but Tetsurou sees the way his hands jump, startled. ‘God, fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ Kei takes a deep breath, then reaches for his shirt, slips back into it. Leaves it unbuttoned as if in rebellion. ‘I promise it’s okay. Please, just tell me what I can do. We can— ’

‘What can we do?’ He doesn’t snap this time, but the weariness in his voice his worse; Kei, this time, doesn’t hide how his shoulders slump. ‘Tell me, Kei. I know finding solutions is your favourite thing to do, but do you think there’s a solution here?’

Kei stares at a clean white spot on the bedsheet.

‘There’s no solution,’ Tetsurou continues. ‘It’ll always be like this. This is what my _normal_ is, except it’s not normal at all. Do you realise that? Do you think this is normal? That Koutarou had to take anxiety medication for six months after I woke up? That I have to text my father good morning and goodnight every day? That I scared the living fuck out of you just now?’

‘Tetsurou—’

‘No, sorry, I’m sorry.’ He is. He is sorry, for running his mouth and for showing up here and for staring at Kei from across a room instead of staying on the sidelines, away from it all. He is _sorry_ for constantly doing this to people, sorry for that naked fear he saw in Kei’s eyes. ‘I’ll stop talking. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry.’

‘Stop apologising,’ Kei says tightly. ‘If I keeled over and passed out right now, wouldn’t you be worried? How does that mean anything other than that you care for me?’

‘It’s not the same thing,’ he replies. ‘It just isn’t. You’re not a liability. I am. You won’t do that to me once a week. _I_ will. I can’t come to loud concerts or amusement parks with you. I can’t lift you and carry you around the apartment and make you laugh the way someone else could. Fuck, I can’t even make out with you without going into fight or flight mode—’

‘And? _And?_ ’ Kei’s eyes blaze. ‘Were we doing any of that before? What makes you think I need it to be with you?’ _To be with you._ Did they even—

‘What if _I_ do? What if I _want_ to give you all that, and I know I can’t, and it fucking kills me?’ He should’ve stayed at the bar. He should’ve gone and sat down that first night when they were talking about databases and spies. ‘Why does no one ever think about that? It isn’t about what expectations others have of me— can’t I have expectations about what I want to give to others? Do you think it’s fun, having my default setting be satisfactory for everyone because they’re afraid I’ll pull a muscle trying to do more?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Kei says, but he has nothing to add, because Tetsurou’s right. Of course Tetsurou’s right; he’s the one who’s been living an undead life for the past four years. He should’ve known it’d end up like this.

‘I’m,’ Tetsurou says, then inhales, and exhales. The night is over. They’re out of lives. ‘I think I should go.’

Kei shakes his head. Moves a hand forward, then takes it back. ‘I’m sorry, but I won’t let you go home alone like this. I’ll drive you if you don’t want to stay, but if you can— please, just— I’ll take the couch.’

Of course he will, in his own fucking apartment. But the fight has gone out of Tetsurou and he’s too exhausted to even say a single thing, let alone argue. So he leans back against the pillows in lieu of replying, and stays frozen there even as Kei leaves the room and comes back with a bottle of water. They say nothing as he places it on the nightstand, but when he’s leaving again, Tetsurou looks up at him.

Kei’s in the doorway, turning around at the same moment to look back at Tetsurou. For a second his face is inscrutable, then the next, there is a shadow of longing so tangible that Tetsurou can feel it in his own veins. It’s petrifying.

How could he have let this happen?

‘Please try to sleep,’ Kei says, all feeling gone from his voice. _I refuse to regret meeting you._ ‘We can talk in the morning.’

✶✶✶

Tobio’s grandfather used to teach piano at that little school in Karumai, back when it didn’t even have a music club because no one as hopeful as Sugawara Koushi had shown up yet. Miwa was the first to pick it up, then Tobio, who was born with the absolute pitch she neither had nor wanted. Why did he play back then? Because it came as easy to him as breathing or crying. Even when his hands were so small he could barely play one octave.

Even Shouyou, never-cold, has to rub his palms together for a good minute before his fingers are warmed enough to tackle the fretboard. Tobio wishes he’d put on something warm— and as if he overheard, the door slides open again and Suga-san steps out, two steaming mugs in his hands and a shawl draped over his arm. Places it all next to where they’re both sitting cross-legged, straightens up, shivering, hugging himself.

‘Sorry, boys,’ he says, voice muted in the chilly air. ‘I would’ve brought out the space heater but Noya’s roasting his feet on it. I’ve set up two futons next to him, so don’t worry about getting home.’

He doesn’t ask to sit with them, and it makes Tobio feel guilty for a second before he remembers what he’d said in the kitchen earlier. _What more could I ask for?_ Maybe this is the best thing they can give him— friendship, after years of silence. Music, after years of separation. Even if he can’t listen to it, knowing it’s happening next to him must be enough to put that brilliant smile on his face that Tobio almost fell a little in love with when he first saw it.

‘Don’t stay up too late, though,’ Suga-san says, waving a finger as he steps back inside. ‘Whoever wakes up last tomorrow has to do the dishes.’

‘ _He_ hasn’t changed one bit, has he,’ Shouyou says after him, almost wistful.

‘Nope. And now he’s getting married to the man who used to eat three buns in a minute just to prove he could.’

‘Amen to that.’

In reality, Tobio’d never considered making his own music until he met Shouyou. There was something about the way Shouyou wasn’t scared of his own imperfections. About how he was excited to make it to the day he’d overcome them. So excited for that day that it made him wake up faster in the morning. There was something about Tobio realising that in a world of big orchestras and perfect fingers, no one would actually put him on trial for not being able to read score and wanting to make flawed music until the flaws either disappeared or became their own golden staples. Something he felt when he walked into that near-empty classroom when he was fifteen and nursing a melody in his head, and met someone unafraid of his voice giving out.

Shouyou’s voice still gives out sometimes, but now it’s from the sheer euphoria of performing for thousands of people who have the same appetite for life as him, if only for the three hours that the concert lasts. Tobio knows this because while Shouyou’s face is an open book, it still needs to be read. His voice, on the other hand, is pure information, a binary code straight into Tobio’s ears— he can hear it every time he watches a live on his screen at three in the morning, no matter how long it’s been.

It’s like absolute pitch that way. Tobio was born with it. Trying to make it disappear is like trying to unlearn music itself.

The moment he starts playing, a new hush falls over the city, and then another one as he starts singing. No— he’s not singing, he’s humming, lips forming only meaningless sound, and giving shape to a melody Tobio’s never heard before. It raises such goosebumps on his arms that he wonders if Shouyou’s making it up on the spot. Wouldn’t put it past him, three in the morning in the middle of fall. Tobio picks up one of the mugs to do something other than curl into himself, then puts it back down, brings his knees up to his chest.

It’s soft, gentle, individual notes and not chords. He’s picking with his fingers, which must hurt right now, but the sound is as clean as ever, not a scratch, only this forgiving sort of resonance that blends into the air like it’s always been there and Shouyou’s only plucking it out for a second at a time. He keeps humming, head tilted at a funny angle, shoulders just barely going to and fro. His eyes are closed.

He doesn’t open them. Not when he finally changes to a song Tobio can recognise, sings, finally. Not when that song blends into another, then another, then another. He doesn’t open his eyes, and he doesn’t smile, or laugh, or even cry. His voice doesn’t give out. He doesn’t open his eyes. And— Tobio, who used to sit cross-legged in front of him while he sang on their empty high school stage, cheap shiny confetti still littering the wood— who used to sit in front of him on the rough parapet of the sports building roof while the sun set around them in reds and pinks— who used to sit in front of him in the back of Miwa’s car— who used to sit, every time, cross-legged, while Shouyou played his stupid old guitar and sang— Tobio feels his feet touch the ground, the storm letting off for a moment of such clarity that it feels like— nothing he can compare it to.

It’s not that Shouyou won’t open them. It’s that he— who used to sit cross-legged in front of Tobio on stages and rooftops and car seats, and sing like every song was a conversation with Tobio, a new secret— he refuses to look Tobio in the eye.

For the first time, and the last, because this question can only be asked once— Tobio looks at him and thinks, _when he turns twenty every time he sees me, is it twenty, before or twenty, after?_ He thinks— thought— that it meant that every time Shouyou saw him, it brought back when he was thin, weak, pale, small.

Now he looks at Shouyou, and thinks— _is he in love forever, too?_

Comes the last note, the last word, the very last visible white exhale. Shouyou lays the guitar down. The tea has long since gone cold, and the only light is from the paper lanterns on the balcony. Tobio is in a dream. Tobio is in a dream.

Stupid, wild, grieved, he wishes he could kiss Shouyou’s fingertips. Like Shouyou had done that day in Tobio’s worn little Tokyo one-room, when they’d forgotten dinner in the riptide of it all.

But he said it himself— he wants to be twenty-seven, too, and letting Shouyou out of the past and into the present means giving him up all over again. So Tobio drags both hands down his face, letting it crumple for a second behind them, and gives him up. To the night, the Pacific ocean, and the entire universe.

✶✶✶

They don’t talk in the morning. Tetsurou has decided that there is nothing to be said.

Instead, he wakes up at eight, when the sun is just barely starting to come up, and buttons his creased shirt, tucks it back in. He doesn’t try to look for the bathroom, only downs half the water in the bottle in one go, letting that wake him up as best it can. Throws some on his hands, drags them down his face. Good morning, world.

When he gets to the living room, tiptoeing even though he’s barefoot, he’s arrested for a second by how it looks in the feeble daylight, and then by the sight of Kei, asleep on the couch. It’s too small for him; his knees are bent, hanging over the edge, and he doesn’t even have a blanket. It’s too fucking cold now for that, but he’s still fast asleep. He must be exhausted; he didn’t even change, and doesn’t so much as shift when Tetsurou comes to crouch on the floor beside him.

God, that’s going to hurt his back. The weak morning sunlight is so cruel on his face. His face is so young without the glasses, his hair falling over his eyes light like silk. Tetsurou wants to stroke it back. He never did get to. (He never did get to see the study.)

Kei is asking to forge a relationship with something that’s already happened, that he cannot change. How can Tetsurou accord him that helplessness for the rest of his life? How can he do that to Tsukishima Kei, who doesn’t like to throw himself headfirst into things, likes instead to map his way forward, observing, analysing, evaluating, interpreting? What is here for him to chronicle, apart from something that’s already been said a thousand fucking times? _I’m sorry._ Apart from something that’s already happened, but refuses to end. Refuses to stop constantly happening, as if dying wasn’t enough to cut it short.

(At home, Tetsurou spares himself a glance in the mirror, just to memorise how this colour looks on his skin. Then he slips out of his borrowed shirt, and puts it away somewhere far, hidden, and inaccessible.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _what does the seeker seek?_ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/6wXPV6dNRAhFavrRaCdMXT?si=CF0lKwB4SUej_AR11gJHFQ)
> 
> [balcony scene.](https://open.spotify.com/track/0xHvmWCpz9Pnn1sDvRehAs?si=OKj7NP5TRi-qLSjRnYHn-Q)


	12. luna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [hallelujah.](https://open.spotify.com/track/3pRaLNL3b8x5uBOcsgvdqM?si=RlrJKaonT7OKK36P6SzC0g)
> 
> **note:** tsukki's smoking his ass off in this one, as you can imagine.

Tobio’s living room is filled with the smell of cigarette smoke. He plays the last notes again. Then keeps going. Loops back, tenth run.

✶

_You guys are brutal,_ Yamaguchi had said once, when it was just him and Tobio. Tobio’d said something about Kei that anyone else would’ve gotten sniped for. _But you know, it makes me kind of jealous. Tsukki’d never go full-frontal like that with me. It’s like you two have your own language._

He met Kei the same day he met Shouyou— the same moment, even. When he’d walked into that classroom, Shouyou’d been singing to Yamaguchi and Yachi, both listening with bright eyes, bushy tails. Kei’d been leaning against the window, headphones around his neck, arms crossed, face neutral. 

That’s the first thing Tobio remembers about him— he wasn’t scoffing, or sneering, or doing any of that stupid shit he’d do once they all got to know each other. No. He was quiet. Listening. 

He’s always been like that. It’s like a switch— the moment there’s music, Kei’s silent. As if every single time he gets to hear it is a gift from the universe, and he’d better be on his best behaviour for it.

✶

About an hour ago, Tobio was putting away leftovers when his buzzer sounded three times, two seconds each. 

They’d come up with it when Kei moved into his first real apartment six years ago, a matchbox of a studio with one futon, three cushions and a portable stove. Back then it was knocks, because his bell was loud enough to startle the neighbours. Three rapid knocks followed by two spaced out ones— their very own Morse code for _let me in, don’t ask me anything, I’m going to sleep over._ Tobio’s used it a hundred more times than Kei, so often that he doesn’t even remember what half of the times were for. (Almost always Shouyou.) 

For Kei, this is the second time in six years. Tobio still remembers the first, two years ago, when an argument with Akiteru turned into a real fight for no reason other than Kei being a shit, and he knew exactly how shit he’d been. He’d turned his phone in to Tobio, _don’t let me use it,_ and drank a third of a bottle of vodka all by himself until Tobio dragged him to bed.

When they were fifteen and didn’t know better than to throw clumsy punches just because they could— Kei mocking Tobio’s inability to read score, which was impossible for him to understand— Tobio lunging at him for daring to be so passionate about music without putting in the effort of mastering a single instrument— they’d often end up in half-screaming matches. Half-screaming because Tobio’d always get heated, raising his voice over from the bench, while Kei’d throw his head back and look down his nose at Tobio, sneering, going _oh, is the prince of piano about to bestow his wisdom upon us again? Why don’t you play a few chords to go with it?_

Then, one day after the last bell had rung, Kei had caught Tobio playing alone in the tiny auditorium. Or— rather, Tobio caught Kei, that day. There was something different about the way he’d walked in, bag hanging off one shoulder, bad posture, a hand on the strap. Eyes wide, headphones around his throat. Tobio’d been playing it that day because it’d been stuck in his head since that morning, but it was the first time Kei was hearing it. He looked like he’d only just then realised that Tobio really did know how to play piano. He didn’t hide it, the way he came to sit on the stairs leading to the stage, bag slipping off. Didn’t hide the way the tip of his nose went red either. Tobio remembers thinking _aren’t you too young and annoying to be looking like that?_

But he wasn’t. Nor was Tobio, for that matter, because when Kei finally spoke at the end of the song, Tobio didn’t point out how his voice shook. 

_I’ve never heard it_ _sound like that before,_ he’d said. _What did you do?_

Tobio had answered, _I…don’t know._ Braced himself for the blow that’d come, _of course you don’t, do you even know what improv is._

The blow never came. That day onwards— it never came. 

Instead, that day, Kei said _can you play it the same way again, I’ll record it and work out the notation,_ and Tobio played it again, the same way. That was thirteen years ago, and since then, they’ve kept three things between them. _Hallelujah,_ played by Tobio on Kei’s request, no questions asked, at whatever hour of the day. Kei, always recording and writing the notation for Tobio’s compositions. And— no blows. Punches, yes, when needed. But no blows.

✶

Kei doesn’t need a punch right now. He’s already half-dead, horizontal. His heart’s not in it, or too much in it. The hand holding his seventh cigarette of the evening’s hanging limply over the edge of the couch, the other arm thrown over his face, glasses open on his chest. Tobio’s been perfecting his vision for thirteen years— can see how each note he plays travels over the lines of Kei’s body and face, the way he times his breaths to the music. Too precise not to know that Tobio’s been playing the same melody for an hour. Too busy smoking to say anything about it. (No vodka this time when Tobio opened the door. He’d pushed past without meeting Tobio’s eyes, slipping out of his coat and letting it pool on the floor. Only had enough energy to trail his fingers over the piano before collapsing on the couch.)

So Tobio keeps playing, the brittle October air turning the notes loud and important and resonant, their edges sharp against the smoke.But on his eleventh run, he breathes in too deep— the smoke gets to his throat, and he has to cough. It jars the notes. Kei freezes, then sits up in a flash, grabbing his glasses.

‘Sorry,’ he says, a word he’s said to Tobio thrice in their lives. ‘I’ll smoke outside.’

And— he actually gets off the couch, leaving Tobio just sitting there like an idiot, hands frozen over the keys. Then Tobio curses and leaps up to follow him. 

Even though they’re still in the middle of autumn, he lives on a stupidly high floor— it’s freezing outside, but Kei doesn’t seem to give a shit. He’s leaning all his weight on the metal and glass of the balcony barrier, just hanging over it with his stupid lanky frame. Sleeves rolled up,glasses low on his nose, the tip of his cigarette bright like a bug in the night. 

Tobio’s stupid fucking firefly.

If he knew what happened, he’d have trouble finding what to say. Right now, he doesn’t— and that works, because they’ve never needed to know _,_ between them. Not really. He doesn’t have the words for that, either. What he does have is hands. Uses one to fix Kei’s collar. 

‘Hey,’ he says, breaking their _no questions_ rule.

Kei doesn’t move. Tobio can’t see his face. 

‘Nothing,’ he replies. ‘Nothing. Just scored front row seats to the indie premiere of the year.’ He turns around, back leaning against the metal now. Tobio doesn’t trust it to keep him safe, and has never trusted the shiny jaws of Tokyo to keep anything safe at all, let alone someone as fairy-reed fragile as Kei. ‘I’m going to call it _The World’s Wheel of Causation._ My greatest hit.’ 

‘If you’re going to say shit I don’t get, you might as well save your breath.’ 

‘Go fuck yourself, Tobio.’ 

Tobio snorts, relaxes a bit as he sees Kei roll his eyes. ‘Can you move away from the rail, at least? You’re so fucking tall you’ll just topple over. Pretty sure _he_ wouldn’t like that either.’ 

‘I won’t. I’m in a hit indie film. I have plot armour.’ 

’Then scream,’ Tobio says. 

Kei blinks, then straightens up to raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Pardon?’ 

‘Scream,’ he repeats. ‘Isn’t that what they do in the movies when they’re on the roof of a skyscraper or whatever? So scream. If you have plot armour no one’ll hear you. If you don’t, someone’ll yell at you to shut up and go inside, but who cares, right?’ 

Kei stares at him.

‘Go on, scream,’ Tobio says. ‘How can you care about explaining yourself to me when you want to scream so bad? How can you care about a single other thing than screaming?’ 

✶

_You’re right,_ he’d said to Yamaguchi that day. _It’s because you’d keep thinking about what he said to you. Trying to— understand him or something. I don’t. I just take the hit and I’ve already forgotten it. I don’t try to understand him. I already have._

✶

Kei’s voice is skinned open. His knuckles are red-white with how hard he’s gripping the rail. The great big breath he heaves over the jaws of Tokyo is so jagged that it stabs at Tobio, too.

‘God damn it!’ he screams. Disgusted. Angry. Frustrated. Hurt. ‘ _God damn it!_ ’ 

They do have their own language, a weird mix of too-sharp honesty and hands on shoulders, waists, wrists. They don’t usually talk in screams, but Tobio can adapt. The thing about not knowing how to read score is that music can be anything you want it to be in that second itself. 

Right now it’s the echoless aftermath of Kei’s scream. _Of all the people to fall in love with_ , it sounds like. Of all the people to fall in love with. 

In the next second, it’s Kei himself, going limp against the rail, and how stupidly tall he’s gotten over the years. How thin he used to be, picky eater and pickier everything else. Only the best chocolate ice cream. Only the best headphones that a fifteen-year-old was allowed to have. Only the best recording software for Tobio. 

Tobio’s picky like that too, when it comes to Kei. Only the best indie film premiere— cold wind, midnight in Tokyo, an hour’s worth of hallelujahs. Only the best nameless bar owner to break his heart. Only the best friend he could ever be and have. 

‘Come on,’ he says, his own voice rough. ‘End scene. Come on in, now.’ 

_You’ve been heard,_ he means, and Kei knows he means that, because he clears his throat, straightens up, throws his shoulders back.

‘Yes,’ he says calmly. ‘No retakes.’


	13. october 9, 7:37 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mishima-machi, fukushima.](https://takashiyasui.com/post/179687636998/one-of-the-most-beautiful-village-location)
> 
> lodgings based on [ittogashi village](https://ittogashi-village.jp/wp-content/themes/ittogashi-village/images/ENG_PDF_11252019.pdf) with, of course, literary license re: almost all the logistics. the visuals are identical.
> 
>  **spoiler/warning:** discussions of illness and disability (temporary hearing loss).

Tetsurou has a fraught relationship with God, in that every time he tries to blame one for everything, all he finds himself pointing at is the air, suddenly mirror-solid. In that death is something that happened to him, but dying was something he did, so who was the agent and who the victim? In that even if God was the agent and Tetsurou the victim, was it God who moved his hands against Kei that night then made him leave without a word in the morning? Was it God who kept him in the doorway of the kitchen for four years straight? Was it God who made Akaashi Keiji cry?

**Koutarou [17:45]  
** cool I'll drop the suits off at 8 then  
love you

His own suit came in with the final alterations last week. He's had the garment bag hung up on his wall since, a large black rectangle against the white paint, inspiring only the faintest of joy, so big is the stain of— dread? Guilt? How do you distinguish emotions you've lived with so long they're as grey as your shadow? Background noise that Tetsurou can't listen for no matter how much he practices. 

At least tonight it has explicit purpose; tomorrow morning’s going to be rough. In all that Tetsurou stealthily micromanages his life so that he can give off a perfect impression of spontaneity to onlookers, he can’t imagine what the hell he was thinking all those months ago, offering to drive Kei to Mishima. Or rather, he knows exactly what he was thinking, and retrospect is more bitter shame than nostalgia. He’d really thought that all those months into the future, they’d be— what? Together? Almost together? Really? Tetsurou, who’s never sure of if he’ll wake up in the morning, seemed so sure about this. About them. About _something,_ for once.

_Look where that got me_ isn’t putting it well enough. There has to be a more profound joke in there somewhere, Tetsurou’s great wheel of causation.

Still, there’s a wedding to be had, and if not for his best friends, he’s going to make it through the next three days to show Kei he can— Kei, who’s only spoken to him once in the two weeks since that night, to say he can drive himself. (Kei, who’s the last person to deserve Tetsurou’s spiteful _there’s no need for that_ , but who’s found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Kei— who’s the last person to deserve Tetsurou at all.) 

✶

The car has never been this loud, or this quiet. Suddenly he can hear the working of the engine all too well, and the rare times he has to brake make him wince, as if that sound must be amplified for the rest of the road too. It isn’t, he knows, but it must be for his sole passenger, the only one who seems to be having a worse time than him.

They’re half an hour in, have barely managed to get out of the series of snares and beartraps that is Tokyo. The weather’s perfect for the time being— it’ll only get too cold to have the windows open once they’re well on the highway, with nothing between them and the route, the fields, nature. Tetsurou can see and feel it coming, that moment when he’ll take an exit and suddenly realise that the buildings started dwindling a while ago.

In the backseat lie four suits. Tetsurou wonders what Kei’s looks like. Swallows the question and focuses on the road. There aren’t all that many cars at this time of the day and year. No festivals to be getting to, no summer heat to escape. No tourists on the way in. Just him, the loud-quiet car, and Kei. That unforgettable perfume of his.

Tetsurou hasn’t dared to look at him fully a single time. Kept his eyes trained on the ground when he opened the boot for the bags, the back door for the suit, the passenger door for him. Running from his gaze, if there even was one in the first place— how would Tetsurou know? He wasn’t looking. Does Kei know? There’s no way to find out. Even now, all Tetsurou can do is steal glances in the rear-view, which isn’t angled well enough for him to catch anything other than the edge of Kei’s glasses, the way his hair curls over his right ear, and what looks like a shadow of exhaustion under his eye.

‘Long day?’ he braves, then. Shit, is that what his voice sounds like?

‘Very,’ Kei replies. Squints as a building suddenly disappears and lets a spare bit of afternoon sunlight right onto his face.

He _is_ exhausted, still, and Tetsurou finds both guilt and pride wrestling in his chest at that. Then shame wins over both, and he turns back to the road, takes a deep breath. It does nothing to calm the pins and needles inside, and it’s not even been an hour and already he wants to park the car off to the side, step out, lean against the hood, and scream. He shouldn’t have insisted, should’ve told Kei _yes, please drive yourself, figure something out, rent a car, hell, borrow mine and I’ll walk to Mishima_. Now they’re on the highway and the buildings have dwindled, and he doesn’t know what he was expecting all those months ago, but he was imagining a lot more music, a lot more conversation, a lot more of everything that he so badly wanted at that time. That he so badly wants still, to go back two weeks and two steps— to not have put on that stupid shirt, to not have gone to Kei’s apartment in the middle of the night. To not have reached out. To not have reached out and pulled a muscle. To have stayed forever in that moment before the reaching, when every single thing in the world was possible for him. For them.

‘Yeah,’ he says, doesn’t remember what he’s replying to. ‘Okay. Okay— some music?’

‘Sure.’

Tetsurou doesn’t put any on. It seems like it’d be too much, the last straw, something. It occurs to him that some silences should be respected, the malaise of them felt thoroughly no matter how horrible it is. To drown them out would be to run from acknowledging them, and if nothing else, Tetsurou owes Kei this much. To acknowledge this silence where there wasn’t any before, and to let it fall into permanent place between them, where it belongs. Just like that very first time when they said nothing for ten minutes before exploding into conversation that felt like it was years overdue. Yes, that’s what it feels like now— that their meeting was overdue, somehow, that they both could’ve had so much, had they just met before.

Had they just met before.

The road stretches on, and as the sun lowers itself it catches all the shiny metal tops of the other cars. Tetsurou imagines they look gorgeous from up above, the near-blue grey of the asphalt and a hundred glitterbugs lined up in lanes. And now, a faint drizzle, enough to make them have to finally close the windows but not enough to need the wipers. Tetsurou’s never been a lover of spring— it’s fall that really makes him smile, with the peculiar importance of being alone that it brings with itself. If spring is the blossoms and summer the sun and winter the wind, then fall is the last of the monsoon rains, gentle and cool and unassuming.

What a waste. Months ago, he was probably imagining the two of them under this rain, listening to something gorgeous, then pulling off at a rest stop and stepping out to lean against the hood and feel the breeze of five o’clock.

His phone tells him a toll booth is coming up. He grits his teeth and shifts speeds, and turns the wipers on.

✶

Two hours in, he pulls in at a service area fifty kilometres from Nikkou, beautiful enough that just being around it makes one want to weep. (Or maybe that’s just Tetsurou.) They’re really heading up north now, the jungle twilight green and lush and wet. In what little blue-clear remains, Kei’s sleeping face is something Tetsurou shouldn’t even be allowed to look at, let alone disturb.

He can’t muster up the courage to touch Kei. Sits still for five minutes after pulling into the parking, staring out at the bright lights of the service centre, so yellow against the darkening sky, inviting, anonymous. Then turns, and starts.

Kei’s already awake, eyes slowly blinking themselves to awareness as he straightens up, rolls the shoulder he was leaning on. And now Tetsurou can confirm that Kei won’t look at him either; he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it, actually, now that he sees it. Ignores it altogether and clears his throat, unbuckles his seatbelt.

‘Coffee?’ he asks. ‘I could bring yours back here.’

‘That’s fine, thanks.’

As they wait in the bright interior of the café for their orders, Tetsurou realises that he never once took Kei out to dinner, or anywhere that wasn’t the bar. Thinks back to what Kei said in his bedroom that day, _did we do any of that before_ , and wonders for a second if they were off-base from the very beginning, or if he’s really the one who fucked it all up by inventing expectations that had no place in the relationship they had formed. Why didn’t it occur to him to take Kei out to dinner? Why didn’t it occur to Kei to say _your place or mine?_ Were those the rules, or exceptions after exceptions after exceptions?

Tetsurou doesn’t want to be an exception, not like this.

Kei gets a call just as they’re settling into a booth, so Tetsurou pulls out his own phone, scrolls through the pictures Koutarou’s sent him of the cabins at Mishima from earlier in the day. They look gorgeous, of course, and though Tetsurou’s far from tired yet, he still can’t wait to be in a static place, fall down on the bed, just breathe in a silence of his own making.

‘It’s all good, don’t worry,’ Kei’s saying. ‘ _Yes_ , for God’s sake, Akiteru. You make it sound like I’ve never been in a car before.’

Tetsurou snorts despite himself, clears his throat when Kei glances up at him. Tries to tune out the conversation, but doesn’t really succeed— he’s missed Kei’s voice so much, that exasperated way he has of talking to the people he likes best, a status Tetsurou was so close to having.

‘How am I supposed to know when I haven’t gotten there yet? Ask Tobio.’

‘Fine, then ask Tadashi.’

‘ _Akiteru_.’

By the time Kei cuts the call he’s rolled his eyes enough times for it to give even Tetsurou a headache, and the endearment he feels at that is so unreasonable that he has to drown his smile in his coffee. They aren’t children, this isn’t a spat solvable with one of them cracking and giving in, laughing, breaking face. It’s selfish and unreasonable of Tetsurou to let anything about Kei cheer him up right now, and even worse of him to actually show it. So he downs his too-hot coffee to distract himself, and doesn’t say anything until they’re back in the car and the sun has gone fully down. He has to turn the overhead light on to get himself settled, and still they manage to brush hands accidentally over the shift. Tetsurou curls his back so quickly it’s embarrassing; Kei’s stays in the air for three seconds longer.

Maybe it’s that, or the coffee, or the evening, or something else that prompts it. But when Tetsurou pulls back onto the highway, breath catching at how the sparse hills look in the fresh dark, Kei looks away, and then speaks.

‘Akiteru’s always been like that,’ he says. ‘He has no object permanence. If I’m travelling he thinks I’ll disappear into smoke if he doesn’t get updates from me every three seconds.’

Tetsurou shifts from ten-two to eleven-three, and huffs a laugh. ‘I think it’s sweet.’

‘Yes, that’s because _you_ don’t have to put up with it.’

‘Oh, come on.’ Is he allowed banter? Can he poke gentle fun at Kei like always without overstepping? He really had to go and reconfigure everything overnight when all he had to do was stay and talk in the morning. Can’t imagine what Kei’s face looked like when he woke up to find the apartment empty. ‘We both know he’s your favourite human being.’

‘Incorrect. Tobio’s my favourite human being because he’s rich and has a condo. Akiteru’s just Akiteru.’

At that, Tetsurou laughs out loud. It’s only been two weeks but he’s missed Kei’s deadpan delivery so much, missed everything about him, so stupidly intense that he’s shocked at himself. Just like him to fall in love with what he used to have after he no longer has it. His immoral city slicker Fortune 500 job, the ability to race Koutarou to the pool. Kei’s laugh.

Kei’s smile, lighting up the car and the road right now, as the hills grow less sparse and larger, crowding in on them from either side like they’ll collapse in at any moment.

‘He’s the reason my first memory is music,’ he says, quieter. ‘Our parents always say he was literally infatuated with me when I was born. He’d come home from school and throw his bag on the floor and run straight to my crib. And he wanted to be the one to sing lullabies to me at night. He wouldn’t even let our mother do it.’

‘And does he have a good voice or did you have to suffer all those years?’

‘The best.’ Kei takes a deep breath, drums a little sequence against his window, then leans back against the headrest. ‘Do you want me to stop talking?’

Tetsurou’s throat seizes. ‘No. Please.’

‘All right,’ he replies. ‘I just figured I’ll never have another chance to tell you about myself, so.’

The road, the night, the mountains looming up ahead. The jungle twilight still clinging to their skin. Tetsurou’s eyes, stinging.

‘When I was eight, I got the ugliest case of meningitis anyone’s ever gotten, probably,’ Kei says. ‘I don’t remember anything about it except that everything hurt all the time, and that at one point I suddenly couldn’t hear things well. It was like— like when you step out of a swimming pool.’

Tetsurou’s eyes, stinging.

‘It only lasted a couple of days, but I really cried my eyes out.’ There is no feeling in his voice. ‘Akiteru sang to me every night from the doorway. When they took me for the final checkup, the doctor asked if I had any questions. And I said, _will I be able to hear? I don’t want to stop hearing_.’

Tetsurou wonders, for a second, if this is what Kei felt like when he’d explained himself in that park in the middle of the year. This brief flash of fear as if even hearing about it, talking about it, is enough to turn back time and ruin things. His hands on the steering wheel are tight and terrified, as if the clock will reverse and Kei’ll lose his hearing if Tetsurou breathes wrong right now. A million quantum deaths.

No, he tells himself, breathing in. Kei’s here and safe, and he’s a goddamn computational musicologist, and now Tetsurou knows why.

On cue, Kei continues. ‘I guess _I got really sick once_ isn’t the best of career motivations, but I don’t think music is a career for me. Or for Tobio or Hinata for that matter. Or for Suga-san. It’s just—’

‘It’s a way of living,’ Tetsurou finishes. ‘Of tuning into the universe.’

‘Yes,’ Kei says, after a pause, so soft. ‘Of making the listening my own again.’

‘I think that’s goddamn beautiful, professor. I can’t believe you had your indie awakening at all of eight years old.’

Kei laughs, runs a hand down his face. ‘You know, some of the old music I recover is lullabies. Decades old, sometimes centuries. Just a silly couplet about someone who spotted the moon from a roof, and grandparents still sing it to their grandchildren today. They’re an endangered language of their own— can you imagine if I’d lost my hearing, and if, by the slightest chance, the lullabies Akiteru sang to me were the last of their kind? That he was their last singer? Or maybe even that he’d made half of them up, but now he wouldn’t sing them again? They’d just be lost in the ether.

‘I can’t let that happen, Kuroo-san,’ he whispers. ‘I won’t let the world disappear without memorising as much of it as I can. Good or bad. Nothing is a waste of my time.’

✶

By the time they pull into the resort, it’s pitch dark outside, only the headlights showing Tetsurou where to turn next once he’s off the highway and ono the smaller route that leads to Mishima. He knows it’s supposed to be unbelievably beautiful, but that’ll be tomorrow, when he can actually see more than two metres beyond himself. Right now he’s tired, and hungry, and overwhelmed by the density of the jungle around them, the thick gathering of trees on either side of the road inescapable and sinister every time the light falls on them. He needs to get out of this car before he does something stupid like pulling over, pulling Kei in, pulling the silence from his lips. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being the exception. I’m sorry for being an impossible-to-memorise waste of your time._

The feeling lifts as the light around them increases. Soon enough Tetsurou is killing the ignition and stepping out, soon enough Kei is gathering all the suits from the backseat. By the time they check themselves in and get key copies from the reception, the fresh air and promise of friends, eating, sleeping, has put some lightness back in his chest. Still, they don’t say anything to each other on the way out— simply, Kei heads off to his cottage after a quiet _thank you for the ride,_ and Tetsurou to his.

It’s too cold now for any insects to be crowding the little lamps that line the stone path leading to the cottage. He grounds himself in the sight of each individual stone, the sound of his bag’s wheels over them, the click of the key in the door. He’s rooming with Daichi, of course, on best man duty to stop him sneaking out to see his bridegroom in the middle of the night. The cottage to their right must be Koutarou and Akaashi’s; he’ll go over later to drop their suits off. But first, dinner.

Suga’d texted him earlier in the day saying they’d be ordering everything to his cottage, and Tetsurou can hear laughter and music all the way from here. So he dumps his bags on the bed that Daichi _hasn’t_ spread his entire life out on, washes the fatigue off his face, and steps back out into the night.

It’s worth the effort. The moment Shimizu opens the door to let him in, Tetsurou can smell rich, warm food, can hear Daichi in the middle of one of his tirades about whatever movie plot hole the sorry plebs around him didn’t understand, and Akaashi’s put jazz on the speaker again. Suddenly Tetsurou is full to the brim and _starving,_ as if he’d forgotten for the past four hours that other physical people exist in his life, and that he doesn’t have to hold himself still around them. (Not that Kei deserves to be associated with Tetsurou’s guilt like that— but not like Tetsurou can help it.)

‘Oh, fuck,’ he groans, dramatic. ‘Food. Give me food.’

‘Coming right up,’ Shimizu smiles. ’None of you are allowed to stay up past eleven, just so you know. Tomorrow’s an early day.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He closes the door behind him and falls headfirst into warmth, and comfort. And conversation _._

✶

They’re up before the sun the next morning, just the four of them. Daichi has already showered when Tetsurou’s alarm rings, and when they quickly make the little trek over, all the lights to Suga and Shimizu’s cottage are already on, too. It’s freezing outside this early in the morning, but Daichi doesn’t seem to care. He’s only in a T-shirt and his sleep sweats, and he looks like he’s been awake for hours, but there’s something on his face— something that Tetsurou doesn’t have a name for.

He sees it on Suga’s face too, when they walk in. He doesn’t greet them, doesn’t even look at Tetsurou. His eyes go right to Daichi, and the very lines that make up their shape— change.

Whatever it is, Tetsurou isn’t supposed to have a name for it; it’s not for him. It’s private. Sacred. Like everything about this, from the kimonos that they picked out on their own, to the path they will take to the shrine on their own, to the secret, silent ceremony they will share between them before the actual wedding tomorrow. If anything, Tetsurou and Shimizu are blessed to bear witness to even a small part of it.

He knows the story, as flippantly as Daichi’s told it countless times, all the little details and corrections that Suga fills in affectionately. They were sixteen, and here on a school trip, and nothing really mattered except the woods and the streams and the bridge that stood high over where the Tadami ran, picturesque and something to write home about. Nothing really mattered except, in Daichi’s words, _we were kind of really, you know, and I hadn’t clocked it yet, and, you know_. In Suga’s words, _yes, I’d been waiting for you to “clock it” for months at that point_.

They’d snuck out of their sleeping quarters at six in the morning, running shoes and jackets on, and for no reason at all, raced each other to the shrine just because they could. They both claim the other got there first, another thing no one else but them will know. They’d tolled the bell, clapped their hands, bowed.

 _And, well,_ Daichi always says. _I don’t know, I just, you know? I just kind of said my wish out loud because it wasn’t really God who could do anything about it anyway._

 _Yes, he really did say “I want Sugawara to know I like him” with God as his witness,_ Suga always says, eyes shining. _Can anyone top that?_

The undergarment first, Daichi holding still while Tetsurou checks the tightness, wraps the string around his waist once, twice. Tucks it in and shifts it, the rustling of fabric the only sound. On the other end of the room Shimizu’s making quicker work of it, already reaching for the kimono and draping it over Suga’s waiting spread arms.

Both kimonos are black, grey, simple and traditional. They don’t want a traditional ceremony, and it would’ve been difficult to have one even if they did. But when they took Tetsurou and Shimizu into confidence about this two months ago, they said they did want to read vows. The scroll is on the dresser next to their fans, and it gives Tetsurou a strange chill to look at it.

He turns back to his task, smooths his hands down the black striped silk of the hakama, going all the way to Daichi’s ankles to make sure there are no places the fabric might catch and rip. When he looks up, Daichi’s smiling down at him, and that single visual is enough to pull a tide of tears from his chest to his mouth. Tetsurou blinks and turns away, stands back up, not daring to so much as clear his throat.

He lets Shimizu deal with Daichi’s obi, changes sides to help Suga with his jacket. The first rays of the sun are starting to come in from the glass doors leading to the verandah, and now he can see Mishima for what it is. Green hills and the morning mist, a door to another world entirely. And when he turns back, one of those flashes of orange-through-blue light falls on Suga’s figure, and he looks so sublime that Tetsurou has to take a long shaking inhale to steady himself.

Yes, sublime, sublime is what they look. When Shimizu steps back and Daichi turns to Suga to get his first real look, when they both finally smile, when the sun comes up as if to steal in on their moment too. Tetsurou wonders how anyone living in this uncertain world can share something so pure and permanent that it becomes its own form of divinity. Can share something so sacred that its vows can’t be read before any other human being, only between them and God. Them, and God.

Then: Daichi and Suga turn in unison to face Tetsurou and Shimizu, and bow at ninety degrees without a word.

In a second Tetsurou is rushing forward to stop them, and he hears Shimizu choke on her tears. Daichi’s chest is solid against Tetsurou’s, and his eyes are bright and clear, when they pull apart. So are Suga’s. They aren’t emotional. They aren’t overwhelmed.

They are together. Sublime and sublimed.

✶

When they’ve left for the shrine, Tetsurou makes his way back to his cottage and washes his face again. Then he changes his slippers for shoes, throws on a jacket, sends a safety text to Kenma, and steps back out.

This morning is unlike any other that he’s had since he woke up and sent all those machines beeping. He’s so used to his first thought upon waking up being _I’m still here,_ that the phrase _I’m here_ has lost all meaning over the years. Tetsurou can feel a little of that meaning seep back into his life this morning. Today, he isn’t still here. Today, he’s here. In the scattering of orange-gold leaves on the rich green expanse of the hills, in the fresh whiteness of the rolling mist. He can _see_ it move. He can hear the morning birds. As he steps onto a pedestrian bridge near the expressway, he can hear the quiet autumn-motion of the Tadami. There is not a single person other than him on the bridge, not a single person he can see by the banks.

Tetsurou is perfectly, perfectly alone. He is on a walk, making the listening his own, and he’s so used to listening _for_ something, that letting his own soul be seems like an act of ascension. No, today Tetsurou isn’t listening for anything. He isn’t steering the direction of his own thoughts. He isn’t doing anything but breathing. He isn’t anything but here.

Tetsurou is trying to tune into the universe. _I won’t let the world disappear without memorising as much of it as I can._

He leans over the rail and looks down into the river. The water is grey stained green by the reflection of the trees, and when he looks up, up, up, they bloom with that colour ten times darker, all the way to where the mist meets them, and then the sky. This place is like Kei; patience itself. Patience itself.

Nestled in that patience like the single point of awareness in the middle of a dream, Tetsurou examines his relationship with God. Fraught, in that he lets everything happen. Fraught, in that when Tetsurou doesn’t try to steer his thoughts, they always come back to this, even right now in the middle of patience itself. Fraught, in that he cannot look around himself and not wonder if there is some _thing_ out there, if not someone, that loves. That is incapable of caring for Fortune 500 city slickers individually, but that loves all the same. In that when God or not-God lets everything happen, he lets Tsukishima Akiteru happen, too. He lets lullabies happen. He lets Sawamura Daichi and Sugawara Koushi happen.

Fraught, in that Tetsurou cannot look around himself and not feel loved by the universe, as much as he should like to hate it in cheerful rivalry. _I died and all I got was this shitty T-shirt._ Fraught, in that he doesn’t understand why, despite his efforts, when he thinks _universe_ he presupposes benevolence. Fraught, in that he doesn’t understand what he doesn’t understand. Agent and victim, cigarettes and ginger, Akaashi sobbing at his bedside, so distraught in his relief that he refused to let even Tetsurou console him.

Is he supposed to be realising something? He isn’t. That there is no plan A or plan B or plan C, he knows, despite pretending otherwise. That the fact that he, of all people, was allowed to wake up— allowed back in— is a testament to how completely random and uncaring the universe is, he knows, too. Had someone with the slightest amount of discretion been working out the mathematics of Tetsurou’s quantum immortality, they would’ve kept their foot on his chest until he gave up entirely.

Because he is here with his second chance, plan B, statistically improbable life, and all he is doing with it is just trying to _be_ here. How could anyone, benevolent or otherwise, have deliberately accorded him this helplessness?

How could anyone be looking down at him on this bridge right now, struggling to acknowledge the beating of his own heart, and think that this is what he was born and reborn for?


	14. sun, world, universe

Tobio doesn’t get a chance to talk to Kei until the morning after they’ve all arrived. Yesterday was a blur of travel and activity and Tanaka-san and Noya-san being impossible to deal with at the hot springs, and by the time Tobio got back from it all, warmed up and happy-exhausted, Kei’d already turned the lights out.

He doesn’t seem to be in a mood to talk this morning either, but Tobio’s not going to let him go that easy. It’s the last moment of peace and quiet they’re going to get— the preparations’ll start in the afternoon, there’s a huge dinner in the evening, and tomorrow’s the big day. (Putting it that way, actually, he’d do well to leave Kei alone and let him recharge his social battery for the pure hell that the next day and half is going to be, but Tobio knows a Kei who needs to talk despite not wanting to.)

‘Good call not taking the train yesterday,’ he starts lightly when Kei comes in from his morning smoke on the verandah. ‘Turns out that now that he and I— well, talk again— we’re still just as good at yelling at each other. Someone had to send a staff member to our seats to get us to shut up.’

Kei snorts. ‘Do tell. Did he peek at your cards and exclaim out loud again?’

‘Don’t you know it.’

Kei’s spot on. It’s exactly what happened— even though it was all Yamaguchi’s fault for suggesting they play a few rounds for old times’ sake, to come full circle to their last trip to Mishima, whatever. All Tobio knows is that one minute he was praising himself in his head for having gotten so much better at the game— it only took him a decade— and the next Shouyou was leaning dangerously close, the heady scent of his cologne assaulting Tobio’s senses, the hoop in his left earlobe brushing against Tobio’s collar.

‘Holy shit!’ Shouyou’d said in a loud whisper, then winced. ‘I mean— totally not. I’m bluffing. I’m bluffing!’

It was too late. Tobio was breathing out deep and dramatic through his nose, Yachi had already folded, and Yamaguchi looked like he couldn’t figure out what exactly Shouyou was bluffing or not-bluffing about. (Tobio couldn’t, either.)

‘You piece of _shit_ ,’ he’d told Shouyou calmly, though his heart was thundering away at their sudden proximity. Did he just call Shouyou a piece of shit? When did they even decide to sit beside each other? ‘Pay up. You just lost me big money.’

‘I’ll buy one of your albums! I’ll send you a photograph you can auction off! I’ll—’ And suddenly Shouyou was bursting into laughter at whatever he saw on Tobio’s face— Tobio, fifteen and completely fucking crap at poker— sixteen and yelling his ass off at Shouyou for tripping on a wire and bringing a monitor down— Tobio, twenty-seven and really fucking pissed at how difficult it was not to smile, too.

Yes— he was breathless with laughter over something so fucking stupid, and he still had (still has) that silly high-pitched laugh, and what did Tobio expect? What did Tobio expect? That Shouyou would change that laugh just for him? That he’d have the courtesy not to be so openly happy in Tobio’s face, not to make him feel like he was soaring?

Tobio breathes in deep, clears his throat, reminds himself he’s trying to get Kei to talk. ‘Anyway, fuck that. I’m guessing things were much calmer on your end. Must be nice, adulthood.’

Kei scoffs, and in two harsh moves, draws the curtains open. Tobio curses at the sudden assault of brightness— even though the sun barely makes it inside the green leaf-canopies of this place— and finally sits up, stretches. For a second the light throws Kei’s tall silhouette into this lovely dark shadow, the only thing visible beyond him the impossible closeness of the hill-jungle, as if they only have to leap once to leave the world behind.

Mishima _is_ beautiful. Tobio slept through the meteor shower that was Daichi-san and Suga-san getting together thirteen years ago, but he’s here this time, wide awake, to see it happen again. It’s going to be a good day, and tomorrow’s going to be even better.

(Even if Kei doesn’t want to talk.)

✶

Suga-san has never looked this beautiful, which is incredible to say because the wedding isn’t until tomorrow. His hair is pinned back with three mismatched barrettes and his shirt is poking messily out of his sweater, but his cheeks are red from cold and warmth all at once, and his eyes are sparkling like a child’s. In the faint sunlight making it through the hall windows, he looks every bit the fairy Tobio wrote the piece for.

‘I know it’s nothing special,’ he says, waving a hand to where the piano stands, ‘but since you said it was all right when I sent you the photos…’

‘It’s perfect,’ Tobio says, and he means it. Sure, it’s not a grand piano, not even full-range, but it’s exactly what he needs— and what’s more, the way it’s just a little worn reminds him of the one back in high school at Karumai, the one he used to play every Thursday for Suga-san’s practices. He can’t imagine playing _dreambird_ on any other instrument. ‘Now— please go do something else while I practice.’

‘Rude! Throwing the bridegroom out of the room! This slight shall not be forgotten!’

Tobio’s still smiling when the doors close behind Suga-san, still smiling when he sits at the piano. He’s only alone for now— later tonight it’ll be gone from here, and the hall will be filled with food and drinks and Suga-san’s favourite people, just the way he likes it. There’s a strange bubbly feeling in his chest as he puts his hands to the keys, and it feels so nostalgic that he knows it can’t be a new emotion.

It isn’t— he realises, as he starts playing and catches sounds from outside. That’s Asahi-san, babbling nervously about not dropping whatever it is that someone else is carrying through the gardens. Bokuto-san, roaring something loud and happy and bright. Kuroo-san’s laughter. The dull echoing of someone tapping on a microphone, _test, test_.

It isn’t a new emotion. This is how he used to feel when they were all students, preparing for a festival, a concert, a fundraiser. Activity all around him, the same singular excitement infecting them all, flurry and flurry and flurry. And Tobio, alone in the middle of the busy _all_ , but not really. Not really.

It is and isn’t a new emotion. This is the first time in seven years that Tobio, instead of remembering what it felt like not to be alone, feels not-alone.

On cue he hears Shouyou’s voice, so close that he must’ve walked right past the window. ‘All right, but if my voice cracks tomorrow, I’ll know who to blame.’

‘It’s _one_ drink,’ Yamaguchi says, voice getting fainter as they walk away. ‘One drink never killed anyone.’

‘Tell that to Tsukki. His soul’s still in Osaka.’

Tobio stops playing for a second, and puts a hand on his face to laugh into it. Remembers last night at the hot springs, Noya-san racing Tanaka-san, slipping and nearly cracking his head open, the way Shouyou and Yamaguchi had knelt next to him in their towels, singing eulogies opera-style. Not a thing has changed since the last time they were all here, even though everything has changed.

Then again, things changing only proves that they can change again. So Tobio sits up straight and lays his hands on the keys, and starts playing again. Smiles.

✶

It doesn’t last.

Dinner is lively. Warm and delicious. (Tobio and Kei took their time getting here, wasted half a pot of wax trying to mess up each other’s hair and another half trying to fix it, but when they stepped out of their cottage they were in dress shirts and vests, all presentable. Yachi pretended to swoon when she saw them, and then came right at Tobio’s throat for how he’d fixed his tie.)

The food is amazing, even though there’s this look on Suga-san’s face that says he’d rather have been the one to cook it all, and that little bossy side of his keeps cropping up every now and then as he speaks to the caterers about soup refills and the drinks table. It’s sweet to look at, sweeter still every time Daichi-san has to drag him away and bring him back to the dinner table.

Tobio’s sitting across from Kei, Shouyou to Kei’s right. It’s hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation he’s having with Noya-san, all the more because they’re both so loud and animated about it all. Tobio doesn’t have the faintest idea what they’re actually talking about, can’t focus enough for it. Can only tell when they’re agreeing or disagreeing with each other, all cross eyebrows and rolled-up sleeves.

Shouyou’s in dark blue, the colour of his hair brilliant against it in the warm lights of the hall. Every time he grins, eyes nearly closing, Tobio has to take another swig of his wine, remind himself to focus on his food. He’s almost grateful for the vow of silence Kei seems to have taken. Doesn’t think he could hold a conversation if he tried, so treacherous is the strange, silly gladness bubbling in his chest. He’s glad, now, that Shouyou can let himself be so happy in Tobio’s face. That he can be himself so close to Tobio, instead of holding his breath the way he did before. Tobio’s glad that he gave Shouyou up that night on the balcony, to have gotten this back in exchange. He’s no longer the centre of Shouyou’s attention when he enters a room, even if Shouyou’ll never stop being his, and he’s glad for it. He’d rather blend into the background forever than have Shouyou worry about speaking to him again.

As it turns out, he _can_ stand it. And— it opens up so many windows, it’s like remembering the sun exists all over again. That he can step back out in it now. He’s glad.

It doesn’t last.

By the time they’re done eating, the plates cleared, the grills doused out and only their glasses still full, Tobio’s feeling wild enough that he could attempt a toast after whatever emotional tirade Bokuto-san is on at the far end of the table, waving his beer mug, hardly the drink to toast with before a wedding. No one seems to care, though— they’re listening and laughing and raising their own glasses. Even Kei has a hint of a smile on his face.

Then— Bokuto-san lowers his mug and looks right at their end of the table, points.

‘And now for our prestigious musicians,’ he calls out, and Tobio immediately feels warmth rise to his face. ‘Kageyama, we already know you’ve composed a piece specially for tomorrow. Hinata, what’re _you_ going to sing?’

Shouyou laughs, waves a hand, so used to attention. ‘Oh, you know, I have first dance rights. I don’t know if you’ve heard _First, Last_ —’ —the entire table _oohs_. Tobio stares at his glass— ‘—well, that’s the one.’

‘I _do_ love that one,’ Bokuto-san says, clutches his chest, makes a show of it. ‘Doesn’t the chorus go _I’ve loved for the first time, I’ve loved for the_ —’

‘Koutarou, please don’t put us through this,’ Kuroo-san says drily. Bokuto-san stops to glare at him, then continues.

‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘A song about first loves, how fitting! It’s almost like you wrote it specially for Daichi and Suga, too!’

It doesn’t last. Because at the exact moment that Tobio dares to look up from his glass and at Shouyou’s face, he sees the shadow that falls over it, even as he keeps the grin on his lips. At the exact moment that Tobio finishes the chorus in his head, Shouyou clears his throat and the grin turns into a smile. At the exact moment that their eyes should’ve met, Shouyou looks down at his own glass.

‘Yes, almost,’ he says, and he sounds nothing like himself. He never did learn how to lie— then again, this isn’t a lie. _Almost_.

It doesn’t last. Neither does Shouyou, for longer than three minutes after that. The conversation’s already moved to a different place, something about Asahi-san’s hair and straightening irons, and some redhead that some Ushijima’s bringing to the ceremony tomorrow— but Shouyou’s still frozen in place. Still has that strange little smile that makes Tobio want to—

Then, as if sensing the gazes on him— Tobio isn’t the only one— he jumps into action, looks around without looking, pats at his pockets, pulls out his phone.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll— I’ll be right back.’

✶

The gardens are beautiful at night. Lamps lighting the winding stone paths, lit lanterns on all the verandahs of the cottages. All around them the mountains, the frigid air of near-midnight, the dark, dark green of the trees, plants, foliage. With not another soul outside, it really makes Tobio feel like they are the only two in the entire world. The only two in the universe. Comet and trail. Star and sun. A body, and another.

Shouyou’s perched on the wooden barrier of his verandah, leaning his weight on his hands, looking up at the sky. Every star is clear tonight; tomorrow’ll be a beautiful day. The light of the lantern hanging by his head washes him warm and so beautiful that it makes Tobio ache to even look at him. (Tobio’s always ached, looking at Shouyou. Even back then. Even back then.)

He smiles down at his hands. Shouyou knows he’s here, so he doesn’t bother to start with anything but the truth.

‘You know,’ he says, voice as still as the rest of the night, ‘Whenever I heard people talking about your songs, singing them, whatever— I’d always think, _hey, that’s not for you to listen to so casually. That was ours_.’

Shouyou keeps looking up at the sky but Tobio can see him inhale, sharp and heavy.

‘But I was wrong,’ he continues. Why is the process of giving Shouyou up a process? Why isn’t it a single step, accomplished when they were twenty? How is it still going? How is it still going? ‘It wasn’t ours, right?’ The comet, stage tech Miya Atsumu, the Pacific ocean. An entire life without Tobio. ‘It was always yours.’ The Pacific ocean. ‘I tried to stop you because I thought you were mine—’ —thin and weak and pale and small— ‘—but.

‘But.’ Tobio takes a deep breath and tries not to choke on Shouyou’s dust. ‘But.

‘But you’ve never belonged to anyone,’ he says. ‘You’ve always just been like that.’

Silence. Then— Shouyou finally turns to look at him, and there is fire in his eyes that Tobio hasn’t seen for years and years.

‘I’ve never belonged to anyone?’ he repeats, so much anger in his voice that Tobio feels his hands shake. ‘I’ve never belonged to anyone?’ He steps down from the barrier, takes two steps towards Tobio, close enough that three more steps and he could be in Tobio’s arms.

‘Every single one of those songs is for you,’ he says. Tobio feels a perfect line of cold travel down his spine. ‘No matter how hard I rubbed them with salt and passed them through fire to purify them, so that they wouldn’t be about you. It never worked.’ Shouyou runs a hand through his hair, laughs harshly, looks away. ‘It just never worked. It was like a well that couldn’t be buried. Like water that’d just keep rising up, just keep rising up, never ran dry.

‘You—’ he turns his eyes back to Tobio, glares, _glares_ , cold and incredulous and so full of a feeling, a feeling so innate to Tobio that he can hardly recognise it. Hardly separate it from himself. ‘How _dare_ you. _I’ve_ never belonged to anyone?’

Tobio thinks his knees might give out. His heart is in his throat and he can’t recall enough language to give words to what is going through his body. Is he allowed to tell Shouyou that he hasn’t felt this reckless and invincible since he was nineteen? That he’ll take all of Shouyou’s anger if it comes with this heat, this focus, this— this, coursing through both of them again, finally, this—

‘I’ve never had one person to call my own but you,’ Shouyou says. ‘And you took that away from me.’ Sun. ‘You took that away from me, Tobio, you ripped my home away from me.’ World. ‘You closed the doors to my home.’ Universe. ‘You took your hands and the piano and all my best friends and you took my _favourite fucking mug_ and you left. You left! You left! You _left!_ ’

He’s breathing too hard now, and in a second, he shatters. Puts his hands to his face and makes a horrible, aborted roar of a cry into them. Tobio’s heart cracks clean in two. Clean in two.

Shouyou sounds more furious than anything else, and Tobio thinks, just as well.

‘ _You_ left,’ he says. His voice is not indifferent. His eyes are not dry. ‘You were the love of my life. I thought I was losing you forever.’

Maybe that’s it, after all. Shouyou, tomorrow, and Tobio, yesterday.

‘And did you get to keep me this way? Tell me, did you manage not to lose me?’

Tobio exhales, looks away, clenches his fists. When he looks back up Shouyou’s hands are lowered again, eyes so full with tears that Tobio can barely see their colour.

‘I always,’ Shouyou says, so much calmer suddenly, but so much weaker. ‘I always, always, always meant to come back home. To you. But you— you’re roaming the fucking world now and you still get to keep everything you love, so why was I punished for leaving? What did I ever do to deserve such a punishment? Why did I lose _everything_ because you were afraid of losing me?’

‘I didn’t know better,’ Tobio replies, and now his voice is raised, and it breaks. ‘I didn’t know better, and I know that’s not good enough, believe me, I know. That’s why I never showed you my fucking face all these years.’ Takes a deep breath. Doesn’t help. ‘I was young and stupid, Shouyou, I had to have you there. I lost everything too. You _were_ everything.’ _You are everything_.

Then Shouyou— laughs. It’s bitter and full of tears, but there’s still almost a— fondness to it, that claws away at Tobio’s chest. So fond of all his terrible decisions.

‘That’s just like you,’ he says. ‘Just like you to decide on your own what’s good enough and what isn’t. Did you call me once in all these years to ask _me_ if it was good enough? Did you?’

Tobio stares at him, breaths coming uneven, eyes about to brim over.

‘Because I’d have said yes,’ Shouyou whispers. ‘ _Yes, Tobio, it’s good enough. Do you know better now?_ That’s what I would’ve asked. _Do you know better now?_ Because I’ve known better since the day you told me to leave. Because I’ve been waiting. Growing up with you.’

Tobio’s eyes brim over.

‘It was always about doing it all with you,’ he continues. ‘Because all of this— all of this— music, guitar, the whole fucking world. There’s no point to it without you. So whether you like it or not, you’re always going to be the point. I’ll always be trying to catch up to you. And if I surpass you, I’ll be waiting up ahead.

‘I don’t care if you never catch up, or if you change paths altogether,’ Shouyou says, takes a step back. ‘I’ll always be waiting. And I won’t look back to check. I’m always going to look ahead, just so you know. I’m never taking my eyes off tomorrow, because tomorrow might be the day I get to see you again.’

✶

Tobio doesn’t know how long he stands there by the verandah after Shouyou’s closed the door. All he knows is he can still hear the sounds of the others talking, dancing, laughing, and he has never felt so alone. All he knows is his legs have gone weak, so he has to sit down on the stairs leading to the door. Shifts so that he’s on the verandah, back leaning against a wood column, the warmth of the lantern falling over his eyes if he tips his head back. 

All he knows is love— belated, mistaken, earnest, honest, flawed, free, forever. All he knows is distance, ashamed of itself. Ashamed of them. Ashamed of Tobio. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. All he knows is that his hands have long since gone numb, but his eyes are still burning. 

He doesn’t know how long it is, but the laughter has died down, and if the others have gone to bed, they’ve done it quietly. The only sound now is the wind through the forest, Tobio’s own shuddering inhales— and— the click of the door opening again. 

Shouyou’s in a thick sweater now, sleep pants, hair wet, messy over his forehead. He looks so young. He looks so young. His eyes look assaulted, then more, when they fall on Tobio. 

He takes a stuttering step back, clutches the door, sways, almost. The shock on his face is so loud that it rips a hiccupping breath from Tobio. Is that how little Shouyou trusts him now, to think that he must’ve left? He deserves it.

But— all Tobio knows, now, is this. Him, today. Shouyou, today. So that whoever seeks one will find the other first. 

‘I know better now,’ he says, and Shouyou screws his eyes shut, leans his forehead against the doorframe. ‘I don’t have words, like you do. I can’t say things the way you do. But I can say this. I know better now.’ 

He manages to get to his feet, the feeling returning to them in waves of fire. Stumbles over to the doorway, leans his own head against the wall. Puts a hand on Shouyou’s face, oh, his soft, untouched skin. Silk under Tobio’s thumb. Lips trembling. Lashes wet. Low notes. High notes. Shouyou, all sound. All sound. 

‘I know better,’ Tobio says again, voice so thick he can barely pronounce the words. ‘And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Shouyou, a single point like the evening star through which all of Tobio’s life passes. ‘I love you.’ Shouyou, bird. Shouyou, flight. ‘I love you.’ Shouyou, everything. ‘I love you.’

Shouyou, opening his eyes, reaching up to put a hand on Tobio’s. Shouyou, guitar-worn fingertips pressing into Tobio’s skin. Shouyou, eyes red-rimmed but clear, alight with wait. Shouyou, waiting. Shouyou, today.

Tobio, today. Tobio, raising his other hand, tilting Shouyou’s face up. Tobio, leaning down. 

Home. The world. The universe. Shouyou makes a love song of a sound against Tobio’s lips, arms going up around him so fast, so tight, fingers clutching at Tobio’s shirt, and he rises on his toes, reaches up, up, up until one of his hands is in Tobio’s hair, the other arm around his waist. Tobio sways, stumbles— the door swings open under their weight— he reaches out clumsily to push it shut when they’re inside. Doesn’t break the kiss for a second, not even to breathe— exhales against Shouyou’s mouth, inhales again, harsh, ragged, home. 

‘Don’t you ever take this from me again,’ Shouyou whisper-laughs, breathless, still in tears, but solid and golden and strong and big in his arms, so big, too big to hold. Tobio holds him anyway, and kisses him, kisses him. 

‘I’m never giving you up,’ he replies. ‘I know better now.’ 

Home. Shouyou, laid bare against the sheets, the rose shadows of the lanterns in the room washing over his skin like octaves spilling into each other, waves and ripples of union-music. Tobio leaning over him, then collapsing into him, hands clutching hands so tight they’re almost numb with it. How many skins since Tobio last touched him? How many revolutions? How many stars since Shouyou’s hands on his throat, his waist, lips on the insides of his arms? 

Tobio doesn’t know. All he knows is now. All he knows is now. The rise and fall of Shouyou’s hips against his, the pure desperation of every sound he makes, like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like it burns. It burns. It burns, the way Shouyou still whispers, the way he has nothing to say to Tobio right now other than _Tobio, Tobio. Tobio_. _I missed your name. I missed your name._

The world. Tobio, back to the bed now, staring up helplessly at Shouyou’s figure, Shouyou staring down at him with those open, impossible eyes. How he’s twenty-eight now, twenty-eight only, twenty-eight because he’s twenty-seven and twenty-six and twenty-five, every younger version of himself safely nestled into the heart that still loves Tobio today, with every age it’s ever been. How Tobio isn’t twenty and forever in love— forever isn’t static, it moves with the hurtling everforward motion of things— he’s twenty-seven and forever in love. Forever isn’t static— isn’t a declaration of _back then_. It evolves, a bird constantly taking off and coming back. Today. Now. Now. 

The universe. Moving in a rhythm only they know, like they’ve just discovered something no one else knows the existence of, like they’ll never let anyone else have it. A feeling that separates Tobio from himself, separates Shouyou from himself— the way music is larger than the two of them, larger than the two of them put together, the largest thing in the universe. A feeling they stumbled upon when they were children, lying in the grass, trying to close windows in the rain, composing, singing, playing. Something so innate they don’t have a name for it, something so secret it’s even secret from them. Like finding out that an old, beloved song has a verse no one knew about. A secret between music and musician. 

Music. Shaming every distance when Shouyou comes, voice high and pained. When Tobio presses his lips to Shouyou’s palm to muffle his own moans just so he can hear Shouyou a second longer. When that simple act makes his breath skip a beat, then another, then another, until suddenly—

Shouyou. Holding him, shushing him. Laughing, crying, singing.


	15. october 10, twilight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _dreambird_ based off [_merry._](https://open.spotify.com/track/1XmgXLBM2mocS2DdZHUne0?si=Tinm73-YTZ2ogVk3kigC5g)
> 
> [THE ONLY WEDDING PARTY SONG.](https://open.spotify.com/track/7F2wxrc0bHjCQbBvESQBXY?si=RqLUDpIaRYCcOl1IsWv-xw)
> 
>  _first, last_ based on [the only first dance song.](https://open.spotify.com/track/58xpZwxUpgrnJMTEmvkZMP?si=1-YL18s3R-K7D0fSe6bchw)
> 
> both have the same chorus. “i’ve loved for the first time, i’ve loved for the last time.”

As much as Tetsurou would’ve loved to have another touching heart-to-malfunctioning heart moment between bridegroom and best man, Daichi is literally impossible to get hold of the morning of his own wedding day. Tetsurou wakes up to the sound of him yelling a series of inadmissible expletives at Tanaka, who isn’t shy about yelling some back, despite it being literally eight in the morning. 

By the time he gets his smoothie in and steps out in his sleep sweats, Daichi’s already moved onto another target, barking out orders at— 

‘Oh, God, is that the redhead?’ Tetsurou mutters to himself. ‘I’m going back to bed.’ 

Unfortunately, he’s allowed no such thing, because the moment Daichi spots him it’s over. He’s stalking over, sleeves rolled up, murder on his face, and by the time he reaches Tetsurou he’s got one arm raised, pointing an accusing finger. 

‘You said you’d be up at seven-thirty,’ Daichi growls. ‘It is no longer seven-thirty. Do you know how to read clocks? Read the clock.’ 

‘Daichi,’ Tetsurou says, tries a placating smile that only seems to enrage him further. ‘What did you even want me up at seven-thirty for? I can’t help with the lifting, I can’t run, I—’

The accusing finger changes directions so that it’s pointing to a spot far to Daichi’s right. Tetsurou leans forward curiously and follows the line of his arm, and then clears his throat as fear strikes his gut.

Yes, that is indeed Bokuto Koutarou in the distance, just visible enough for Tetsurou to tell that he is very enthusiastically pouring himself what is probably already his second glass of the morning. What’s more, that is definitely Nishinoya Yuu next to him. Tetsurou now remembers why Daichi wanted him up at seven-thirty.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, okay. Let me deal with that real quick.’ 

Separating them from their drinks while simultaneously hiding from Daichi that he only managed to do it by bribing them with the promise of more drinks later proves to be easier said than done, but he eventually succeeds, and even manages to outsource flower duties. As it is, the area the resort’s reserved for the ceremony is so beautiful all on its own— with all those hills surrounding it— that they don’t need all that many embellishments. 

Try telling that to Daichi, though, who won’t stand still long enough for Tetsurou to say more than three words to him at a time, let alone sit down and calm himself down and do something only he can do— get ready for his wedding, which is three hours from now. 

Sugawara-really-soon-to-be-Sawamura Koushi has never been this sorely missed. Tetsurou’s sure that if he was here he’d get Daichi to listen under thirty seconds, but as it is he’s been whisked away from view by Akaashi and Shimizu, who’re determined to film one of those disgustingly touching videos of Daichi getting his first look at Suga’s wedding suit, or whatever. Tetsurou has more pressing things to attend to, like getting his bridegroom to relax, shower, and practice his vows. 

He ends up having to physically drag Daichi away from the dinner table placements and back into their cottage, confiscating his phone in the process. 

‘I’ll tell your mom everything’s going well,’ Tetsurou promises as he slides the bathroom door open with his foot. ‘Now get the fuck inside and don’t come out until you’re ready to talk at normal decibels again.’ 

Once he hears the shower going, he relaxes himself, falls backwards onto the bed. Considers the sloped wooden roof, takes in the busy sounds outside. He’ll have to shower soon too, after getting Daichi into his suit and making sure everything’s in place, and then it’s just a waiting game. The guests will all have arrived by noon, everything’s on schedule. He and Shimizu, assistant pessimists, have gone— thrice— through their list of things that could potentially go wrong, and found that nothing is really all that bad. Not when it’s Daichi and Suga, solid and unshakeable and so sure that they’ll weather anything. What’s the use of worrying?

No, Daichi isn’t worried when he steps out of the shower. He wasn’t worried earlier either, Tetsurou concedes— he was excited. So ecstatic he didn’t know where to put the energy. He still looks like it, hair wet, a towel around his neck, damp T-shirt over boxers. He’s positively vibrating with it, and a little bit of his joy resonates with Tetsurou, makes him grin so hard it hurts his cheeks. 

‘This is it, man,’ Tetsurou says, and his very _voice_ is coloured with it. When were they this happy last? Full to bursting? The years seem like minutes. 

Daichi takes a deep breath, and tries to level an _I’m still pissed at you_ look to him, but fails miserably. Instead he makes a funny, childish, bright sound through his teeth, and spins, and takes to his hair with the towel, all rough and loud, then whips the towel to the floor.

‘Put on some music,’ he says to Tetsurou, who’s already leaping to his feet with a crowing laugh. ‘Let’s get that fucking suit and tie on.’

✶✶✶

It _is_ a beautiful day. The October sun isn’t harsh at all— barely peeking through the faint grey cloud cover at noon— and it’s not too cold. The air is fresh on his hands, the bones of his wrists, as he stills them a centimetre above the keys, playing the theme in his head one last time. No score, after all.

The seats are all full now. Silk dresses and cashmere suits, and as he looks out beyond the piano to take inventory, he smiles at all the tissues that are already out. Even Kuroo-san has a kerchief at the ready— he waved it in front of everyone, pointing at Daichi-san with a mischievous grin, making them all laugh. Even Shimizu-san has one— Tobio can see it from where he’s sitting, clutched between the hands she’s folded behind her back. Her dress is pale green silk, the same colour as Kuroo-san’s tie over his black shirt and grey vest.

He has a perfect view of the altar, a simple wooden stage outlined with wildflowers. Of Daichi-san and Kuroo-san, standing to Asahi-san’s left. And so he can see second by second as the look on Daichi-san’s face changes from calm to impatience to— finally— realisation, the moment Tobio puts his hands to the keys and plays the first notes— because Tobio has a perfect view of the aisle, too, and spots the exact moment Suga-san steps onto it.

He looks—Tobio plays— the clean path before him, the grey sky above him, the _green, green_ hills around him— he’s in a white suit, his tie the same ash grey as his hair, and he looks so beautiful that Tobio almost forgets both things he’s supposed to be doing: playing, and turning to see what Daichi-san’s reaction is. He wouldn’t want to miss it for the world, even though he wants to keep staring at Suga-san, so he turns.

It’s worth it. There’s a— a sort of pure clarity on Daichi-san’s face. Mouth open, eyes trained on Suga-san as if he’ll never look away. (He won’t.) Tobio lets his fingers do the playing, the clean sounds of the piano filling the air in time with Suga-san’s every step, in perfect harmony with his smile that’s growing wider by the second. _dreambird._

Daichi-san brings a fist up to his mouth, then— just as Suga-san steps up to the altar and throws a smile, lovely and sweet, to Tobio as he plays the final notes— gives up altogether and closes his eyes, bows his head. Kuroo-san brandishes the kerchief with raised eyebrows and everyone laughs again, but Tobio’s got a lump in his throat too. He might’ve slept through the meteor shower, but he still remembers when they were both so much younger than this, and silly enough to yell at each other in public just the way Tobio and Shouyou used to. Silly enough to race each other and steal each other’s food and smack each other on the back of the head. How long ago was Karumai? How long ago was Mishima?

How long has it been? They look like it’s the first day. They always look like it’s the first day.

Daichi-san takes the kerchief, presses it into his eyes. Suga-san laughs, high and melodious and knowing.

His task done, Tobio stands up from the bench and makes his way over to the seats. Settles into the one Shouyou saved for him.

✶✶✶

Azumane clears his throat and taps to check the mic. 

‘I don’t know what they were thinking, making me officiate,’ he begins, and Tetsurou snorts. In the audience, Koutarou full-on laughs; he’s not the only one. ‘I _hate_ public speaking. But then again, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for these two here.’ 

Kei’s in the second row on Suga’s side, that light-coloured head of his grabbing half of Tetsurou’s attention the moment he settled into his seat. Suit a gorgeous dark grey, hair combed back. So handsome that Tetsurou’s still thinking about that first look he got, as Azumane continues. His voice is surprisingly steady given that he’s the crybaby of the lot, but Tetsurou suspects that the tears will be coming any minute now. 

‘You know,’ Azumane says, then. ‘The best comparison of how love used to make me feel is— those five minutes when you’re watching the flight safety video just before taking off and you’re convinced despite the statistics that your flight _will_ crash this time.’ He pauses as everyone bursts into fresh laughter, raises his eyebrows gamely. Over Daichi’s shoulder Tetsurou can see Suga laughing too, playfully jabbing at Azumane’s ribs. 

‘But,’ he continues, ‘seeing these two over the years, I stopped being so afraid. How could I not? I’ve never seen them scared of love a day in their lives.’ _I’ve never seen them scared of love a day in their lives._ ‘I mean— imagine being all of sixteen years old and confessing before God! How stupid do you have to be?’ More laughter. Suga’s eyes, shining, smile beatific. Shimizu, nose red, lips trembling. 

Azumane’s voice is still steady. He smiles, calm and certain, and leans forward. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in sight of that God, to join this stupid, brave pair in holy matrimony.’

All at once it hits Tetsurou. He blinks at Azumane as if he’s hearing those words for the first time in his life, and going by the way Suga’s smile fades a little, something a hundred times more vulnerable taking its place, it’s hitting him too. It must be hitting Daichi too. Must be hitting them all; he looks out at the audience. Doesn’t look for too long; he has a role to play, and there needs to be at least one person on this altar who _isn’t_ in tears. 

Still, when Azumane calls for the vows and he has to hand Daichi’s to him, he fumbles. Has to take a deep breath, clear his throat, before passing the paper. Grits his teeth and swallows as Daichi starts to speak.

✶✶✶

‘Koushi,’ Daichi-san starts, and it’s already a lost cause. Tobio hears Kei huff a silent laugh next to him as Daichi-san puts the paper to his face, breathes in deep, starts again. ‘Koushi. The first time I saw you, you were crying in the stairwell. Do you remember?’ He laughs wetly. ‘You’d just found out that the only dance instructor in the school had quit before you got there, and now no one would teach you.’

Suga-san laughs too, hides it behind his hand, lowers his head. The lump in Tobio’s throat grows more urgent. 

‘I didn’t even know your name,’ Daichi-san continues. ‘But I knew I had to stop you crying. I didn’t think you’d take me seriously when I said _so just make your own club,_ but you did, didn’t you? That was the first thing I learned about you— that you’d do anything you put your mind to, no matter how much it scared you. 

‘That changed everything,’ he says. ‘I was fifteen, and I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet, and you were all skinned knees and old shoes, but that day you looked at me like I’d just invented something impossible, and— it all changed. Nothing was impossible anymore. Not for me— not for you either, I think.’ Suga-san shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head. So full he doesn’t know what to do— Tobio’s never seen him like that, so full he doesn’t know what to do. 

‘You have _always—_ ’ —Daichi-san’s voice breaks— ‘—always made impossible things happen for me. I never thought I could make it out of that little town and be someone in the big city, but here I am. I never thought I could have something like this, but here you are. I’m standing before the Koushi who taught kids twelve hours a day so that I could pay the deposit on my first apartment. I’m standing before the Koushi who stayed up all night helping me redo an assignment when I realised I’d gotten all the graphs wrong and I thought I was going to explode.’

‘Even though I hate math,’ Suga-san cuts in. Everyone laughs. Kei, shaking his head. Shouyou, giggling. Tobio tries to laugh, too.

‘Even though you hate math,’ Daichi-san says, grinning bright and brilliant. ‘I don’t even know how many other things you’ve done for me, for us, without telling me. What I do know is that from that very first moment, I started inventing impossible things every day. I had to, because I didn’t want anything more than to see you that happy, always. I have spent every single day of the past thirteen— no, fifteen years, trying to make you happy. Keep you dancing. I must be doing something right, since you’re letting me marry you.’ 

Suga-san, the happiest person Tobio’s ever known in his life, puts his hand to his mouth again. 

‘Koushi,’ Daichi-san says, lowering the paper to his side. ‘I promise that I will never stop inventing impossible things. I will never stop trying to be a better man, to be the person you deserve by your side. And you get more and more impossible every day, so I’ll just have to keep up, right?’ Laughter. Tears. ‘I’ll keep up. I promise. I will never leave your side.’ 

Tobio doesn’t realise until his vision’s completely blurred, that it’s blurring. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling, as if all of last night and this morning is crashing on him suddenly, and he doesn’t have the heart to make it about himself, he doesn’t, but Shouyou is right next to him and before them both is a pair of people who they could’ve been, and Tobio can’t tell if it’s more bitter or sweet. 

Then Shouyou exhales, drawing Tobio’s real attention, and he’s— smiling. Just smiling. 

‘Show’s not here,’ he whispers to Tobio, nods his chin towards the altar, just as Suga-san takes his own paper from Shimizu-san. 

He leans in, smiles at Daichi-san, then out at the audience. Points his thumb towards his husband-to-be.

‘I love how this guy pretends I’m the nice one,’ he says. ‘Like he didn’t put me through four years of dance school and doesn’t come to every single show my kids put up.’ 

From the other side, Bokuto-san lets out a loud cheer. Daichi-san laughs through the tears. 

‘Daichi,’ Suga-san says, turning back to him. ‘First of all, you look _really_ hot.’ Laughter. Applause. ‘I hope you’re ready to pose for a million pictures and then have them plastered all over the apartment. I am never letting you forget this day.’ 

_As if I could,_ Daichi-san mouths indignantly to the audience. 

Suga-san continues. His voice doesn’t sound even close to breaking— it’s as mild and sweet and sure as ever. ‘Daichi, you are home in a crowded place. The fuller a room is and the farther you are, the closer you get to me when we catch each other’s eye. You only need to smile, and I know what you’d be saying if you were beside me. It’s _blink twice if you love me,_ right? It’s choreography. We keep at it everyday, and it sinks into our bones. Muscle memory.’ 

He smiles, lowers the paper. ‘You are muscle memory. We are hard-earned perfection, after years of twisted ankles and late nights and bruises. After years of knowing what comes after the music stops.

‘You are who I find when it goes quiet inside my head,’ he says. Behind Daichi-san, Kuroo-san dips his head, brings a hand up to his eyes. Tobio sneaks a glance at Kei and finds him staring at the movement too. Doesn’t know what he expected. ‘When everyone’s left. When the world lowers the shutters. When the show’s over.’

His voice catches suddenly— he laughs, looks up at the sky, blinks quickly. ‘Oh, I swore I wouldn’t.’ Takes a deep breath and looks back down.

‘Daichi,’ he says, a third time. ‘I wrote this months ago, even though no one’ll believe me— I wrote, _you keep me dancing._ You are solid ground, you who remove every splinter, every pebble out of my way so that I can move barefoot. You keep me dancing. And I promise that as long as my feet move, I will keep pulling you away from the crowd to dance with me in the kitchen past midnight. So blink twice if you love me, and let’s go home.’

If Daichi-san does blink twice, it’s lost in how he hides his face in his arm, and then lost in Suga-san’s laugh and all the clapping as Kuroo-san readies the rings. 

Asahi-san waits for it all to calm down, then smiles. 

‘Now, whoever _really_ won that race to the shrine thirteen years ago gets to put the ring on first,’ he says, and even Tobio bursts into laughter.

✶✶✶

Koutarou lets the music rip the moment Daichi and Suga step off the altar, peppy guitar and percussion filling the air out of nowhere and disrupting all the peace in the best, most unapologetic way ever. Tetsurou laughs loudly as Daichi stops and turns around, motions to Suga with both arms. Not a second’s hesitation— Suga jumps on him, arms around his neck, head thrown back as Daichi lifts him effortlessly and spins him around, everyone cheering, throwing all those flowers Tetsurou got Nishinoya to arrange by the seats. 

The weather’s perfect and they’ll have to get out of the way so that the cocktails can be set up, but for now there’s only Daichi carrying Suga back down the aisle and hollering, putting all his might into it, Suga screaming at him to _put me down already, I’m getting dizzy._

Tetsurou and Shimizu nod at each other, the worst of it over, and Tetsurou rolls his sleeves up, gets ready to order everyone around, get the seats cleared while the newlyweds socialise, and they’ll have to set up the lights— 

‘Oh my _God,_ ’ Azumane whimpers, finally remembering he’s Azumane Asahi. ‘Hang on, my heart’s going to give out.’ 

‘You’re telling me,’ Tetsurou drawls back, which _does_ make Azumane laugh, to his credit. ‘Come on, now. You can cry once the tables are set up. I want to eat, damn it.’ 

Sundown comes early. By the time they have it all set up— tables lining the sides and the middle cleared for when the drinks’ll pile up and even the least ambitious among them will want to dance— the sky is an incredible mix of blue and orange, all the strings of lights flaring in the barest of drizzles that’s started up. It’s just enough to get Tetsurou to worry about his ridiculous hair, just enough to be refreshing after a whole day in these stiff clothes, even if it’s October. 

He gets Koutarou and Nishinoya those drinks he’d promised them in the morning, which feels like it was weeks ago, and even allows Daichi to pour him a glass of champagne once they’re all settling down to eat. Suga’s hovering over everyone as usual to make sure they’ve been served enough, of course, and never mind that it’s his _wedding._ They wouldn’t have it any other way, after all; Daichi didn’t marry any other Suga but this one, practically hopping from one table to another, reminding people of their own allergens and stopping mid-tirade to say _and don’t_ you _look like a dream_ to every other person he sees. 

He’s resplendent, generous with his gentleness, and Daichi can’t take his eyes off him for a second. The colours of the sunset printed on his face, the smile on his lips, champagne forgotten. It occurs to Tetsurou that it must be something to see your entire future laid out in front of you, to have it be this lively, dynamic, angelic thing that won’t sit still for a second, it’s so full of friendship. 

‘I love him,’ Daichi says simply. ‘I hope he knows that.’ 

‘I _think_ he might have an idea,’ Tetsurou grins. ‘But thanks for the last-minute speech ammunition.’ 

He doesn’t bring it up, though, when the mic is finally passed to him after a round of food and other speeches. Shimizu keeps hers short and sweet and vaguely threatening towards Daichi, which is just as it should be. Koutarou’s already four drinks in which means he neither needs the mic nor realises that Akaashi switched it off before handing it to him. Three embarrassing anecdotes about Daichi later, by which time Tetsurou’s already choked as many times, he finally picks up the mic, and stands from his seat, half-full champagne glass in his other hand.

‘Show-off,’ Daichi says loudly. ‘He’s memorised his speech. Always trying to steal the show. No one give him their number.’ 

‘Shut up,’ Tetsurou says politely into the mic. The echo makes everyone lose it, including Daichi himself. ‘Good evening, members of the jury. Let me start by saying that it’s going to take me six months to stop calling Suga _Suga._ ’ 

There’s four tables in all; it’s not the biggest of parties. Despite himself his eyes skim over the first three to land on the fourth one, where he doesn’t need to pick Kei out. He’s right there, more beautiful than ever in the changing light of the evening, and looking away the moment his gaze meets Tetsurou’s. Beside him, an oblivious Hinata, fixing his tie, passing something to Yamaguchi.

Tetsurou clears his throat and looks at Daichi. Suga’s finally beside him, hand in hand, smiling, waiting. 

‘I _did_ memorise my speech,’ Tetsurou says, grins. ‘But only because I didn’t want to mix the pages up and have you there on the altar telling Suga about that time you drank soju out of Michimiya’s left stiletto.’ 

Howls of laughter, and one of surprise from Michimiya. Tetsurou grins wider, continues. 

‘I’ve known this clown for nearly ten years now,’ he says. ‘That is to say, I’ve never known a version of him that wasn’t in love with Suga. It’s literally impossible for me to imagine. If you think about it, counting the years, their love is nearly an adult— fully-formed. It’s lived out a separate life of its own, isn’t that crazy? That two people can love each other strong enough, and long enough, to make a whole life out of it?

‘That’s Daichi and Suga.’ He looks down, then laughs at the completely stupid face Daichi’s making in order not to cry for the fifth time today. ‘Sometimes I wonder what they must’ve been like before they met each other, but does it matter? I don’t know if they were made for each other— I don’t know if people ever are— but what I do know is that they grew _into_ people who were made for each other. And that them being better, every day, wasn’t limited to just them _._

‘No,’ he continues. ‘Daichi’s like a brother to me. He’s the rock of our group— he’s the one who makes things less scary the moment he shows up. And Suga— Suga’s the exact opposite, like— like some sort of bird who’s never touched the ground, who’s here to remind us that being lighter and happier and _more_ is always possible.’ Steady, now, he refuses to go down like this. ‘But aren’t they who they are thanks to each other? Isn’t Daichi _more_ Daichi, every day, this solid, brave, loyal, amazing human being, because he’s with Suga? Isn’t Suga our treasure because he’s with Daichi?

‘I think that’s one of the most incredible things that could exist in this stupid, cold universe,’ he gets out through whatever it is that blocks his throat the moment he accidentally catches Kei’s eye again. ‘A love like that. That lets you love the whole world better. And if I was the thankful sort of person, I’d thank the stupid, cold universe for letting them meet each other, because honestly? It was doing the rest of _us_ a favour.’ 

Tetsurou takes a deep breath and a longer swig of his champagne than he should have. Swallows it, blows out the breath, and grins down at his best friends who’re looking up at him like they’re meeting him for the first time. 

He raises his glass again and looks out to everyone else, a whole world of people in love with the way these two love each other. 

‘So,’ he says. ‘To Daichi and Suga, and to being thankful once in a while.’ 

✶✶✶

Night falls, and Shouyou takes the stage. Under the lights he’s sweet fire given form, and his smile is so disarming that it makes Tobio melt a little in his seat. Less than a day ago, this was out of his reach. Less than a day ago this same Shouyou was in tears, defeated, refusing to admit defeat. Now he’s here, on the stage like Tobio remembers him being a hundred times, guitar in his arms, and he’s within reach. 

‘ _First, Last_ is a song about first loves,’ he says. Some of them cheer; Bokuto-san hoots. ‘I started writing it when I was seventeen—’ Seventeen? He never told Tobio— ‘—and finished when I was twenty-three.’

He adjusts the strap of his guitar, and then takes a breath that the microphone multiplies by ten. 

‘It wasn’t written for the guitar, though,’ he says. ‘It was written for the piano.’ 

Tobio takes a second to enter the words into his brain in the right order. _It was written for the piano._ Shouyou never told Tobio— never said— 

‘Of course, we adjusted it for the studio release,’ he contines. His voice is so light. His eyes are so light. He is everything and more. ‘But I thought I could make an exception for tonight since we have a piano here.’ 

He leans forward. He is everything. He is looking right at Tobio, right at him.

‘Any volunteers?’ he asks.

Years and years ago, when Tobio had walked into that near-empty classroom— no, almost run into it— Shouyou’d stopped singing the moment their eyes met. Startled, he’d stopped his clumsy, lovely song, and lowered the guitar, blushing up to his ears. The others had turned to look at Tobio too, but he couldn’t care about that— couldn’t care about anything other than this little thing sitting on a desk that’d been scribbled over, with his guitar almost too big for his lap, the sun hitting his large eyes, his fingers still curled over the strings. 

He’d seemed entirely too small to contain a world-big voice like that. To pull music whole and ready from the air like that. But Tobio, frozen in that doorway, looked the sun in the face and the sun was singing. Singing. Singing with his _eyes_ that looked back at Tobio in surprise. 

The piano is old and worn and perfect. When Tobio settles behind it again and looks out, the world is swaying under the weight of the slow chord Shouyou plays to give him the key. Turning away from the microphone and looking right at him, as if the last time they performed together was only yesterday, in their school uniforms, collars popped, the microphone only working if they folded its wire just so.

Shouyou is looking right at him, not having stopped for a second to wonder if Tobio knows how to play this song. How to fit it to the keys of the piano when he’s only ever heard it with the guitar. That eyes-open ears-open voice-ready trust that Tobio hasn’t had for years. That Tobio’s never wanted from anyone other than Shouyou, because he _is_ the point, too. 

Beyond him, Daichi-san and Suga-san are waiting, hands linked, pure joyful surprise on their faces too. And it _is_ surprising. It is a thing of wonder, the way the hook of _First, Last_ goes. _It’s a thing of wonder._

Tobio closes his eyes, and begins to play. Not for Shouyou, not at Shouyou. 

Shouyou wraps one hand around the microphone, and starts to sing. Magic— music, flooding out in stars and sunflares over the clearing, touching the edges of the green-dark mountains, the night sky, Daichi-san and Suga-san’s dancing, dancing figures. Over all of them. Sunflares over all of them. Stars. 

_It’s a thing of wonder,_ Shouyou sings— not for Tobio, not at Tobio. _I’ve loved for the first time, I’ve loved for the last time._

With. With— is the word. Not for one another, not at one another. Neither a declaration nor a conversation. With one another. A revelation. 

_And now you, here._

Tobio opens his eyes and looks at Shouyou’s perfect silhouette, the shape of his guitar against his body, his big golden form. Plays on as the percussion from the track comes in, as Shouyou joins in with a few chords, voice uneven as he sways back and forth against the microphone. 

Tonight the keys are everything. Tobio plays and plays and plays, the riptide dissolving into the big, big night-ocean, returning home.

✶✶✶

Tetsurou, actually, doesn’t know how it happens. He spends an hour building up the nerve to do it and failing every time, only managing to stare at Kei across the expanse of grass on which everyone’s dancing, only managing to keep their eyes locked on one another without a word, then looking away when it’s too much. But then, suddenly, he’s making his way to the middle of it all— to the middle of it all, all that activity, the lights blurring his vision, his legs unstoppable. Even though his hands are shaking by his sides, even though his throat feels dry, even though the lamp is right above his head. He doesn’t stop, because it’s as if the same wordless impulse that is pulling him is pulling Kei too— the moment Tetsurou stands up and makes his way forward, so does Kei.

There is something full of purpose about the way he walks to Tetsurou, an absurd sort of confidence, something almost final about it. _I just figured I’ll never have another chance._

They don’t waste time deciding who should lead; simply, Tetsurou feels the wool at the shoulder of Kei’s suit give way under the curl of his fingers, feels his own crease under Kei’s grip on his waist. His hand is cold; Tetsurou’s is colder. They slip into the slow beat as if they’ve been here all along, blending into the other partygoers as if they have something to be happy about— even if they do. Even if they do.

Kei’s cologne, intoxicating, mind-riddling. His slender fingers, perfect nails. His face, laid open for Tetsurou like this under these lights; has he always been this gorgeous? Surely Tetsurou would never have dared, all those months ago, if he’d seen just how gorgeous Kei really was. How unruinable. How unregrettable.

‘You never did tell me your wedding prank ideas,’ Kei says then, and even smiles, when Tetsurou laughs through the thorns in his throat. ‘We still have time to pull at least one off.’ _We still have time before this ends. Before you drive home alone in your car and I take the train and go to the office on Monday and pretend none of this ever happened, because if it happened, then I’ll have to regret it, which I don’t like to do. We still have time._

They don’t. Tetsurou has been counting off their lives like beads on a rosary, and this is the very last one of them. Clear and shot through with cracks like ice, so that the _whole_ of them, that never finished forming, is indistinguishable from the shards. Was it only two days ago that Kei was telling him about lullabies in the car? Was it only two weeks ago that he was on top of Tetsurou in his bed, the most perfect weight Tetsurou has ever had to bear? The days seem like years.

How long have they been in love?

‘I didn’t,’ he replies, finally, and it’s so exhausting to lie. He can actually feel it, like breathing is suddenly harder than before, like keeping this up is impossible. He grits his teeth and does it anyway, smiles. ‘Tell you what. We can sneak into their cottage in the morning and—’ He can’t do it. Can’t come up with a single funny thing to say. Can’t even keep the smile up.

Kei can, though, somehow. Pretends to consider seriously as he spins Tetsurou around slow and careful, brings him back in. The grass is soft under Tetsurou’s feet. The night is unfairly beautiful. There are thorns in his throat.

‘We could send Nishinoya-san and Bokuto-san to their honeymoon with them,’ he muses. ’Just have them waiting at the reception when the newlyweds arrive. I think Daichi-san would grab the nearest crowbar-like object and just start going at it.’

Tetsurou snorts, shakes his head. Has it always been this difficult to breathe? God. Mountain air.

‘There,’ Kei says then, softer, suddenly. ‘Now that we’ve finally had that discussion, you are no longer obliged to remain in contact with me.’

Mountain air. Mountain air.

‘Cold, Tsukishima-san,’ Tetsurou manages to get out. His turn to spin Kei, and he does it as slowly as he can even though he has to hurry to catch up with the beat right after. ‘Efficient. Just like you. I like it.’

‘Oh, I’d hardly call myself efficient. I’ve dragged this out over two days when I could’ve made it so much simpler for you. I should’ve understood right when I woke up that morning, actually.

‘But I just couldn’t,’ he continues, takes a deep breath through his teeth, frowns. It tears at Tetsurou’s heart, at some spot right next to where the stupid fucking machine is wired in. ‘My way of not letting things be a waste of my time is— giving up when I know it’s going to go wrong, and letting entropy take care of it. I only have so much time on this planet, I want to see as many things through as possible. But somehow— somehow, I refused to give up, just this once.’

He doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. Long enough that Tetsurou can get his throat working again to say what he wants to.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, so quiet that he’s almost scared Kei won’t catch it. ‘I’m sorry, Tsukishima, for not being half the man you are. You fell sick for a week at eight and came out on the other side the secret-keeper of the universe. I _died_ at twenty-five and apparently I’ve just stayed dead.’ He takes a deep breath. Kei is looking at him, listening. Loudly. ‘Every time I get too close to— anything. Anything. Every time I get too close to the universe it starts to kill me all over again. I can’t do it. I can’t feel that much.

‘I’m barely a person,’ he whispers. _Mountain air._ ‘I’m six minutes of nothingness. I can’t even look back and imagine what you saw in me.’

There is a glint in Kei’s eyes, anger, disappointment, something. Something that makes guilt churn worse than ever in Tetsurou’s gut, that makes him want to stop this dance right now and walk away, run. Run. Back to that bridge over the Tadami, the river dark, the sky dark, the air dark, only Tetsurou and the absence of a need to exist. To be part of anything at all.

‘Do not,’ Kei says, slowly as if he’s controlling himself, ‘please don’t bring your personhood into this. Do not insult the both of us _._ Your— voice blooms like nebulae in my head, and you think I fell in love with six minutes of silence?’

 _I fell in love._ Tetsurou repeats it to himself, sounds the syllables out, memorises it forever. _Your— voice blooms like nebulae in my head._

‘And it’s awfully easy,’ Kei continues, then, bitter and scoffing, ‘it’s awfully easy to pretend that the universe is something you either have or don’t have, and that it’s all dependent on— genetic predisposition or something. It isn’t. You have to take it back yourself. You have to claw your way back. No, it isn’t easy, I know. I can’t even imagine how difficult it is for _you._ But I can’t think of another person who deserves it more. Who deserves to feel things fully and be present in his life. Even if I’m not there to see it.’

At that, Tetsurou has to lift his hand from Kei’s shoulder, press it to his eyes for a second. Darkness. Phosphenes. Breathe.

‘I wasn’t always like this, you know,’ he says, then tries not to laugh at himself for such a useless line. ‘And if there’s one, _one_ person who I wish I’d known— before, it’s you. That’s—‘ They have no more lives. ‘—that’s why I regret meeting you.’ Kei sucks in an audible breath, the blow delivered perfectly, and Tetsurou fully deserving of his nothingness now. ‘Because all I can think about is how I wish I’d met you then. That you could’ve known me then. When I was—’ _Alive. Me. Here._

But he knows, even as he says it, that he isn’t right. Not that he doesn’t mean it— just that he isn’t right. Because if he had met Kei then, he would never have learned to listen the way he can now. The way he can tell that the song has changed, switched to something faster, something so mellow and innocent that he hardly deserves to be listening to it, but that they aren’t keeping up with it. They’re still dancing to the one from before.

 _That’s why I regret meeting you._ Kei looks like he’s repeating it to himself, sounding the syllables out. Memorising it forever, even though Tetsurou’s just realised how wrong he is. It’s too late. Everything is too late. It was, from the beginning.

‘And do you think,’ Kei says, in a voice that sounds like all the life has been knocked out of him, ‘do you think, if you had met me before, you could’ve—’

 _I love you now_ , Tetsurou thinks. _I couldn’t have loved you half as much before. I wouldn’t have known._

‘Kei,’ he says instead. _I can only love you like this._

But Kei whispers _I see_ and nods to himself because he knows he’s lost either way, and suddenly— he’s squinting against the lights, eyes narrowing, teeth gritted, anything to keep the tears in, Tetsurou can see. Anything to keep the tears in, because they’re bright on the roots of his lashes now. 

‘Sorry, Kuroo-san,’ he says, and oh, Tetsurou just made a human being sound like that. He just made Kei sound like that. ‘I can’t keep this up. You’ll have to excuse me.’

And with that, he frees Tetsurou. Lets go of his hand and his waist, and steps back, staring at Tetsurou’s feet. Before he can say a single word— and what would he have said?— Kei is walking away. Tetsurou stares at his solitary figure cutting through the happy crowd, parting dancers and singers and lovers and going somewhere inaccessible. Tetsurou stares at him; Tetsurou stares.

He only looks away when he feels another gaze on him, turns to see that it’s Kageyama. His eyes are so piercing that Tetsurou can’t even process it— can only think back to Suga saying _they’d kill for each other without blinking._ And it almost makes him smile, as he sees Kageyama take off after Kei, because at least Kei has someone like that keeping him safe. At least Kei has a place in the world.

All Tetsurou has is his shame, a keening grief, and the waning sounds of happiness.

✶✶✶

Kei puts his glasses back on and takes a deep breath. His hair’s dark where it curls over his neck, wet from when he washed his face. His collar’s damp, too, but he hasn’t noticed and doesn’t care, probably. 

‘Okay,’ he says, like not a single fucking thing has happened. Stands up from the bed and squares his shoulders. ‘Okay, let’s go.’ 

‘No,’ Tobio says. ‘No. Just fucking stop it for five minutes.’ 

The cottages aren’t too far from the party— they can still hear the music, faint and lively, but inside the room there’s a heaviness so unbearable, to even Tobio, that he can’t even imagine how Kei’s standing it. 

But he is, and meanly. Scowling at Tobio now, reaching for the handle of the door, then cursing when Tobio blocks his path, presses his back to the wood.

‘I said no,’ Tobio says. 

‘What the fuck?’ Kei takes his glasses off again, pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Seriously, Tobio, let me out.’ 

‘No,’ Tobio says, and even though he can’t be pressed closer to the door than this, it hurts when Kei shoves at him. It hurts because there’s no fight to it. It’s weak, like Kei’s voice when he curses again.

‘Get out of the _way_ ,’ he says, face twisting. ‘Fuck off. Just _fuck off._ ’

‘No,’ Tobio says. ‘I said stop it.’

‘Stop it?’ Kei says, whispers, then. ‘I wish I _could_. I don’t want to do this anymore.’ 

Tobio stares at him, taken aback, but Kei’s almost talking to himself when he says it again. _I don’t want to do this anymore._

Then— a knock, right next to Tobio’s ear against the door, making him jump away from it. For a second Kei looks so wildly hopeful that Tobio finds himself hoping right along with him. 

But then he’s opening the door to— Yachi and Yamaguchi, and behind them, Shouyou. 

Yachi pushes past him as if he doesn’t exist, gathering up all the volume of her pale blue skirt to save it from the wooden floor as she steps inside the cottage. 

‘I have concealer!’ she chirps, and Tobio and Kei both blink at her dumbly. A few curls of her hair have escaped from her bun, and her cheeks are red from the cold, and they don’t always get to hear her be so loud. She reaches into her tiny little purse that shouldn’t be able to contain anything at all, as Yamaguchi and Shouyou step inside and close the door, and fishes out a tube of— ‘There! Sit down, Tsukishima-kun!’ 

Kei’s sits on the edge of Tobio’s bed, still with that blank look on his face, completely startled out of his misery. ‘I— what?’ 

‘Concealer!’ Yachi says again, still in that bright voice. ‘It’s a wedding, everyone cries, right? I’ve cried my makeup off thrice already. When I saw you leaving I figured you’d need some too, because none of us should show up all puffy-eyed in the photos! We all look so nice today, I want a _huge_ group photo all blown up in our living room! Isn’t that right, Tadashi?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Tadashi says weakly, which is just about how Tobio feels. Yachi is all frills and silk and glowing hair as she daintily dabs her fingers under Kei’s eyes, and the visual of it is so fucking ridiculous that Tobio feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up. Kei, almost taller than Yachi even though he’s sitting down, obediently turning his face up so that she can pat the product onto it. Yamaguchi with his glass still in his hand, tie a little askew. Shouyou at the door with Tobio, arms crossed, a strange, uncertain look on his face. 

They know. They all know, just like he knows, without knowing. They’re all here to share in it— that very specific, strange sort of pain you feel when you can’t make everything right for someone you love, when the only thing you can do is witness them. Tobio curls his hands into fists and glares at the floor, then looks back to where Yachi’s babbling away, something about coverage and beauty blenders and what face cream is best for winter. Tadashi’s sitting on the other bed now, head leaning on his chin, hand covering his mouth. His eyes are red. 

And— for all that Kei’s being obedient, he’d be more useful if he could stop crying the concealer off as it’s being applied. But that’s asking too much— in twelve years, it’s the first time he’s ever cried in front of any of them, let alone all of them at once. Yachi knows that too, because she ignores how the product is running down Kei’s face as the tears slip over and over out of his closed eyes, and keeps trying to fix it anyway. 

‘This has a really disgusting texture,’ Kei says calmly. ‘No offence.’ 

‘Of course I take offence,’ Yachi shoots back. ‘This is a very expensive concealer! The shipping I had to pay for it was twice the price! Can you imagine— oh, Kei-kun.’ 

In twelve years, it’s the first time Kei’s ever cried in front of any of them. Yachi lets the tube drop to the bed, staining the sheets, just in time to fold him up in the silk bunches of her dress, laying her head on his bowed one, holding him together. And that’s a ridiculous visual too, both all dressed up and Yachi, so small, but Kei— smaller, the entire night closing in on him like skies and skies of cold heavy smoke, beating down on his shaking back, trying to pry his arms away from where he’s wrapped them around himself like a child. 

Tobio exhales, tastes salt in his mouth. Reaches for Shouyou’s hand and finds it right there, warm. Holds it tight, tight, tight. 

Between the four of them, they eventually manage to annoy Kei enough to have him tell them _all_ to fuck off. Shouyou and Yamaguchi leave first with a sincere promise to get more alcohol than they should, and Yachi goes next after fixing the makeup she’s cried off for the fourth time. 

Tobio stays behind, ever the exception and ever so stubborn. Sneaks in a rough kiss to Kei’s temple that earns him a smack on the back of his head and an _I’ll fucking eat you alive and use your bones for toothpicks._

Outside, the music is still going and the lanterns are all alight now, and it’s so easy to forget. It’s easy for Kei to forget too, even though Kuroo-san is right there, trying to forget, himself. 

The moment’s done with, no retakes— Kei grabs a drink and downs it, and doesn’t say no to a single picture, no matter how stupid the pose. Flashes a calm peace sign with Shouyou when Tobio and Yamaguchi lift Daichi-san on their shoulders. Smiles when Suga-san cups his face and drags him down to press a kiss to the top of his head. Makes a show of being all stylish and sophisticated for his photo with Tobio by the piano, before leaning over to ruin Tobio’s hair. 

Yachi gets her group picture. She’s in the middle of them all, Shouyou and Tobio on one side, Kei and Yamaguchi on the other. After the first two clicks of the shutter, Shouyou yells _get her_ and Yachi screams as they all lift her sideways, four pairs of arms holding her up as the cameraman laughs. 

It’s easy to forget, and it should be, because all these years, even when it got to its ugliest— this was always what Tobio thought back to. Suga-san dancing all out and Daichi-san, so fond of him, following along with all the silly moves he comes up with and spending more time smiling at him than breathing. Shouyou and Nishinoya-san chasing Tanaka-san around barefoot on the grass, glasses sloshing over. Even Kuroo-san, quietly drinking next to Shimizu-san, watching from a distance. It’s all part of a whole, a whole that doesn’t ever stop existing, no matter how ugly things are— a whole that might come and go, but which fits right into place the moment everyone’s together again. All the world’s favourite people in one room, laughing and singing and well-fed.

It’s easy to forget, and easier still to remember. Tobio closed this door to Shouyou and himself, and wrenching it back open now can’t erase those years of absence— but they are still here, and as long as they are still here and still running, can _too late_ ever be final? 

So then— Tobio turns to Kei in the middle of it all, and smiles at him. Thinks to himself that even if Kei isn’t brave enough to do it right now, Tobio can think it on his behalf, just like all those years Kei spent thinking brave things for Tobio despite that cynical little brain of his. Tobio can think it on his behalf: it’s never too late to come home.


	16. morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** this chapter is heavy on kuroo’s themes. 
> 
> **note:** DNR = [do not resuscitate.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_not_resuscitate) (it is not relevant to the physical plot, please don’t worry.)

November. Frost. Biting, bitter cold. Sunset before five. The bar stuffed in with all the heavy coats and scarves that start to litter every available surface, patrons rubbing their hands together and shivering as they enter, immediately asking for the warmest thing on the menu— spiced rum, honey whiskey, spiked hot chocolate.

Tetsurou goes on the weekends when it’s busiest, when he can lose himself in whisking and shaking and serving, the music no longer looping the summer top 40 out of respect for the weather, and bar-hoppers taking more than ten minutes to leave because they have so many layers to put back on.

The rest of the week he stays home, lets Koutarou and Inuoka and Morisuke deal with it, monitors the spreadsheets from his warm perfect spot in the bed. Watches all of the _Godfather_ trilogy in a single day, eating overly expensive fried chicken from his favourite black plates. Then he orders a nonfiction bestseller he’d been procrastinating on reading for a year straight and devours it in another single day. Then, one day, he spends four hours photoshopping a horse head onto Koutarou in every single wedding picture, and thinks about _The Godfather_ , and almost puts it on again.

To their credit, they let him languish in his conventional, caustic, city-slicker manner for nearly a month before, one afternoon when the sun’s already gone down, he hears the loud click of the spare key turning in the door. He prepares himself for Koutarou, armed to the teeth with anime reruns and booze (for him) and unseasonal strawberries (for Tetsurou) and a loud booming _that’s enough, now._

Instead, Kozume Kenma storms into his bedroom and jabs his entire hand at the home button of the flatscreen, which blinks and goes out in a second. Tetsurou gapes at the darkness where the Netflix loading page previously was, and straightens up.

He isn’t all wrong, though— Koutarou’s definitely here too. He walks in right after Kenma, arms empty, and makes his way over to Tetsurou’s side without greeting as if there are more urgent matters to be tended to, like not letting Tetsurou get killed by Kenma’s almighty wrath. He hears activity from the kitchen; that must be Akaashi, making tea or something equally non-confrontational.

‘What,’ Tetsurou says, not bothering to keep the sharpness out of his voice. ‘Is this an intervention? What have I done to inconvenience you this time, gentlemen?’

Kenma’s not having it. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ Tetsurou smiles, gets up off the bed, stretches. ‘I’m on a soul-searching sabbatical. You’ll be disappointed to know that thus far I’ve found exactly nothing. All this free time now that I don’t work that stressful job, and I’m making no use of it.’ Lowers his arms and loses the smile. ‘Is that a problem, Kenma? That I’m wasting my time?’

‘Tetsu,’ Koutarou says warningly, but it’s too late now. Kenma’s cold-furious now, stalking forward as if he’s about to fight Tetsurou, then falling back at the last moment.

‘Yes,’ he says icily. ‘Yes, it’s a fucking problem. I have a problem with what you’re doing with the first second chance the universe has given you.’

 _First second chance._ Tetsurou drops the act for a second, tries to figure out what that could possibly mean. _First second chance._ Then the anger is back, Kenma’s sharp eyes and stupid bleached hair and puffy red jacket too-easy targets, and Koutarou’s bristling, wary form doing nothing to help.

‘Yeah?’ he says, softly, meanly. Untreated results of the soul-searching sabbatical: Tetsurou’s a skittish, sardonic piece of shit, and he’s spent far too much time trying to temper it. And it doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s never going to meet a new person again, and the old ones have one fucking job— never confront him about this. Not Kenma, of all people, who’s never let anyone talk about it. ‘And what do you suggest I do instead? Let me guess, I should live a little, chase Tsukishima down in a busy street and confess my undying love to him, so that I can stop being the problem child of the group again and you can all relax?’

‘ _Tetsurou,_ ’ Koutarou says.

‘Yeah,’ Kenma replies. ‘That’s exactly what I think you should do, actually.’

Tetsurou blinks.

‘I’m sick of you,’ Kenma continues, ‘of _all_ people, writing things off forever. How can you think that one thing going wrong in your connection to this person— that you want more than you’ve ever wanted _anything_ in the world— don’t you fucking look at me like that— how can you think this is it? What, is this it? It’s over, just like that?

‘How can _you,_ of all people, not believe in second and third and fourth and fifth chances?’ he asks. ‘How can you not even give him, and yourself, the _first_ chance?’

Tetsurou doesn’t know what he’s feeling more severely: disbelief or dark, dark anger. He sacrifices the charisma of a quick retort in favour of a real one, but maybe he should’ve said the first thing that came to mind, because what he says instead is worse.

‘That’s awfully easy to say,’ he bites out, tries to remember where he’s heard that exact phrase before. ‘That’s so fucking easy for you all to say, right, because that’s who I am to you. God’s favourite. Lazarus himself. I’ve been there and back, so I have more access to inner peace and divine comprehension. That’s right, isn’t it?’ He looks away, at the floor, laughs. ‘I had it all wrong— I thought you were all underestimating me, but turns out nothing I do will ever be good enough, because I’m supposed to be better than you all. _More_ than you all, because I’m lucky. Because I saw something none of you will ever see, and I’m still alive to tell the tale.’ 

He’s— he’s done. He’s done.

‘ _Me,_ of all people, right,’ he continues. There’s something wild and hot rising in his throat, and he gives way to it. ‘Yes, _me,_ of all people— deserving of all the good things, blazing my way through the universe with my trusty fucking ICD by my side.

‘Tell me this, Kenma,’ he says. ‘Do you— do _any_ of you— realise what came before that divine intervention? Was that part lucky too? That I dropped dead and so did the entire life I’d built until then?’ Beside him, Koutarou flinches. ‘How can you— talk to me like this? How can you all— does no one realise? Does no one realise I died? Fuck! I _died!_ ’

‘ _I know!_ ’ Kenma— raises his voice. An occurrence so rare it stops Tetsurou in his tracks. ‘I was _there!_ ’

In a second it’s over. Tetsurou feels an absurd blankness fall over his brain, tunnel vision only seeing the completely haunted look in Kenma’s eyes, and in a second he’s striding forward and pulling Kenma into his chest. Fingers curling harshly into his stupid bleached hair, lips pressed to the top of his head. Tetsurou holds on tight, even though Kenma’s frozen, still.

Tunnel vision, only thinking about a lifetime of memories with Kenma— with Koutarou who’s on the bed with his head in his hands now— that he dismissed in a single _I dropped dead and so did the entire life I’d built until then._

‘I’m sorry,’ Tetsurou says numbly. ‘I’m sorry for fighting.’

‘I’m not,’ Kenma answers.

✶

They don’t try to stop him when he grabs his coat, the first pair of boots he finds, and a scarf. He isn’t going far anyway— just away. Just somewhere he can breathe, for a second, and not have to stand there in their love for him.

But as he walks past the kitchen, he spots Akaashi, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. Beside him is a thermos, behind him a still-steaming kettle. Tetsurou, despite himself, goes to take the thermos. He doesn’t look at Akaashi as he grabs it, hisses a little at how hot it is against his palm. But he does wait, in case Akaashi has something to say, too. Something to make it all better, or worse, or more.

But he doesn’t. He stays there, and when Tetsurou finally looks at him, there’s an absent melancholy on his face; he’s biting his lower lip, staring at the floor in that way he has when he’s holding himself in. Akaashi’s holding himself in, Tetsurou realises, his own version of helpless longing in the tense muscles of his arms, in the tightness of his jaw. A ghost of that look Kei had given him that night, in the doorway.

When did Tetsurou get so hard to hold? When he did start getting so— so— so frightened, that the ones who love him most can no longer reach out to him? What was ever the point of returning, then?

He wants to scream. Wants to fling the thermos against the floor and drop to his knees, and howl. Do something, anything, to tell them _no, I’m still human, I’m still me, I still feel. I still feel._ Anything to let them know they didn’t lose him that day four years ago.

Tetsurou takes a deep breath, and lifts the thermos, nods to acknowledge it.

Akaashi doesn’t watch him leave.

✶

December. Sunset at four.

The winter morning sunlight should hardly be called light at all, but it does make his surroundings visible, though they have to keep half the bar lamps on. Tetsurou squints up at one now, its filament warm orange and sharp against the red brick wall, and raises an arm to circle it in the air. If he doesn’t get up off these booth seats soon his back is going to be sore as all hell, and Suga’ll never let him hear the end of it when he can’t move at this evening’s party. _Who’s going to be designated driver with me?!_

Tetsurou smiles to himself, then starts as he hears Inuoka drop what sounded like a hundred spoons downstairs. ‘You all right, kid?’

‘Yeah, sorry, sorry! Nothing broken!’

It’s a Sunday morning. By all rights he should still be asleep and warm in his bed, but as it is he hasn’t slept all night and figured he might as well keep Inuoka company if he’s already awake. The exhaustion’ll catch up to him before ten, he’s sure, but until then he’s all right just lying here, staring up at the lamp.

Yes. He’s all right just lying here and losing track of time. He might even have dozed off, because the sound of Inuoka’s footsteps coming up the stairs sounds bizarrely loud the way things do in half-dreams. Tetsurou opens his eyes and turns his head to check, and finds Inuoka holding out something incredibly yellow-looking in a tall glass, pleased smile on his face.

‘I’m trying a new mix,’ he says. ‘No alcohol, promise!’

Tetsurou takes it with a grin, but just before he can taste it, Inuoka frowns and looks at the window.

‘What’s that?’ he says. ‘Do you hear it? The birdcall?’

Tetsurou frowns too, lowers the glass. Is there a birdcall? He closes his eyes and calms the voice inside his head to focus better, and— old habits do die hard, then, because it comes to him so easy. The rest of the morning melting away, the glass cold and wet in his hand, the ringing bell of a passing bicycle.

There is a birdcall. A sweet, long whistle, right outside the window, like winter itself had found a throat to sing from. Soft and hooting, gentle and pale. It comes to him so easy, the—

‘It’s a grey bunting,’ Tetsurou says, opening his eyes. ‘I don’t know what it’s doing this far into the city, but—‘

‘A grey what?’ Inuoka asks. ‘How do you know that, Kuroo-san? I didn’t know you could recognise birdcalls! That’s so cool!’

Tetsurou opens his eyes. The bar is suddenly brighter than before, as if he’s taken off three layers of tinted paper from between him and his environment. He thought he’d already lost the habit of this clarity. He thought he’d already lost the habit.

He blinks up at Inuoka, who looks less surprised and more puzzled now. ‘Kuroo-san?’

What? Why is Inuoka looking at him like that, less puzzled and more concerned? Tetsurou is all right— Tetsurou is— clarity made conscious.

How does he know it’s a grey bunting?

‘Inuoka,’ he says, his own voice coming to his ears as if from outside. Yes, as if from outside, because Tetsurou is standing in silence right now, not even his own heartbeat his own. Everything is a one-way communication from the air around him, and Tetsurou is listening. ‘I’m going to try your drink later, okay? I—‘ The dry, dull sound of him patting down his jeans. The slight metallic clink of his hand hitting the car keys in his front pocket. The dusty scrape of his shoes against the wooden floor. ‘I have to go see someone.’ The wooden floor, creaking under his footsteps. The clang-clang-clang of his feet against the stairs, heels hitting the metal with all his weight on them.

‘Kuroo-san!’ Inuoka’s voice, young and light, baffled but urgent. ‘Don’t you want to call and check if they’re home first?’

Tetsurou’s voice, replying. ‘No, I don’t need to do that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ he says. The sound of the door opening, the morning rushing in. ‘I’m in an indie film.’

✶

_Be deliberate about it,_ he’d said on that first day, the winter-pink sunset second only to his face. _It’s a deliberate exercise._

Tetsurou drums his hands on the steering wheel, curses loudly, over and over, at the traffic just because he can, because it feels good to let his voice go like that. To decide to curse, and then curse. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

 _Be deliberate about it,_ he’d said. And Tetsurou tried. God, Tetsurou has _tried._ He has tried and tried and walked down a hundred different paths with his ears open, listening, listening, listening, waiting. Waiting. Searching. Looking for it. Seeking— because he thought that was the deliberation of it, the seeking. Deciding to seek. Because when he first heard those words, _it’s a great way to take it back,_ he hadn’t even thought about taking it back— about taking anything back. The act of wanting to take it back seemed like the most deliberate thing he could do, so could he be blamed for giving up when he couldn’t find the elusive, inaudible _it?_

How does he know it’s a grey bunting? He listened for it. But— the bird was there, whether Tetsurou was willing to listen or not. As patient as nature, because nature isn’t patient. Nature just _is,_ with no care for anything, not even the fact of its own being.

And this— this isn’t nature. _Be deliberate about it. Claw your way back._ There is no _it._ That’s the deliberation of it— God, why is the only free spot in this parking lot at the far fucking end— that’s the deliberation of it. Not just seeking, not just waiting. Because waiting isn’t waiting— it’s ageing, and it’s passing everything by in the hope that a grey bunting will come and sit on his shoulder.

The sound of children laughing hysterically as he throws the car into park, slams the door loud behind him just to hear it. He is in an indie film, and so he won’t freeze even though he didn’t take his coat. Besides, he doesn’t have far to go now.

 _It’s a deliberate exercise._ There is no _it_ waiting for him. There is no awakening waiting for him. There is no God who let Tetsurou die and then changed his mind about it— and it doesn’t matter, because what matters is that everyone fashioned one out of thin air anyway, trying so hard to _find_ something to live in the image of, that they ended up making it themselves. Shaping their own redemption— devotion— ascension out of the star-carpet of the universe.

There is no awakening— Tetsurou has to fashion one out of thin air. That’s the deliberation of it— in fact, the only spontaneous, uncontrollable, funny, stupid, gorgeous thing about it is that bird who’s probably still singing at the window. That no, no one sent that bird to Tetsurou on this freezing Sunday morning because it was time, a part of the greater design, the great aliveness of Kuroo Tetsurou— that bird was there, and he happened upon it, and if he happened upon one grey bunting, there’s a thousand others in this big sprawling city, unaware of his insignificant life, concerned only with their song.

Tetsurou cannot look around himself and not feel loved by the universe, then, because don’t a thousand grey buntings mean that a thousand chances exist all around him, too? A second and third and fourth and fifth chance. It isn’t about dying. It is this— that as long as he is alive and in this world, no matter what happens, there is the possibility— slight but imperative— that the universe will give him one more chance. That chance is not quantifiable, it just _is_ , patience itself, waiting for him to fashion something new out of thin air. One more quantum life. One more quantum life. One more quantum life.

He is immortal. He is here.

✶

Tetsurou runs.

✶

It only occurs to him that he doesn’t know which door to knock on once the elevator is opening. Kei didn’t say a single thing in reply to Tetsurou’s breathless _can you let me in_ when he rang the buzzer downstairs; the only sound was the shrill trilling of the main door letting him know it was open. 

But the moment Tetsurou steps out of the elevator and looks up— a door down the hallway opens, and Kei bursts out of it, turning to look straight at him. There’s a towel around his neck, loose white shirt half-unbuttoned over his chest, feet bare under the cuffed edges of his jeans. Oh, Tetsurou could fall to his knees right there, he’s missed Kei so much, had almost forgotten— almost— how numinous his beauty is. 

For a second, Tetsurou leans back against the wall, still trying to catch his breath. Kei stares at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, glasses a little too low on the bridge of his nose. Tetsurou can feel sweat soaking through his own shirt, God, when was the last time he ran like that? It was only a minute, maybe less, but he feels like he’s going to keel over any moment. 

Hilariously, it’s that thought, more than anything else, that makes him straighten up, pushing against the wall with a hand for support. He sways on the spot for a second, then makes his way down the hall. Kei still doesn’t say a thing, only steps out of the way to let him in, and stares as Tetsurou collapses on the couch, head still spinning a little. His lungs are on fire. He is stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Tetsurou looks up at Kei, who’s leaning against the closed door and still staring, and tries to take a breath.

‘Can I get some water,’ he gasps out, and that startles Kei into motion, finally. He springs up from against the door and is in his little kitchen in two strides; is that where he makes his coffee that he’s always sipping whenever Tetsurou calls— used to call? Where is his study? Maybe he doesn’t even have one, after all. Every single thing Tetsurou could’ve gotten wrong about him is one more chance. One more chance. 

He takes the glass Kei is handing him, and drinks too quick; it sets off a coughing fit so violent he has to hand the glass right back before it spills over. Kei takes it and puts it aside on the coffee table, then barricades himself on the other side of it, crouching on the floor, leaning his elbows against the black wood and still staring at Tetsurou, eyes wide and gorgeous. Listening.

‘I’m not the brightest guy out there,’ Tetsurou says, finally, and he’s already wincing. Is that really what he meant to start with? Can one of the indie screenwriters rework the script? Kei’s about to respond with something sharp and Kei-like, _we know that, do you have anything_ new _to announce._

But he doesn’t. He keeps looking at Tetsurou, completely speechless, and Tetsurou has to do better. He has to do better. 

‘Kei,’ he starts again. ‘Today I heard a grey bunting.’ 

Kei stays silent.

‘Just the one. Right outside the bar. It was so sweet.’ 

Kei stays silent. 

‘I misunderstood your question that day at the wedding,’ Tetsurou says. ‘When you asked if I could’ve— if, had I met you before— I thought you were asking if I could’ve loved you then. But you weren’t, were you? You already knew. You already knew how much I love you.’ Kei’s eyes, stricken now. The Sunday morning silence of the apartment. ‘You were asking if I would’ve done something about it, had I met you before. That’s what you were asking, right?’ 

Kei doesn’t answer; Tetsurou doesn’t expect an answer. Kei wants to listen, so Tetsurou’s going to fashion something for him to listen to. Like apologies. Like epiphanies. Like awakenings. 

‘Well, here’s my answer,’ he says. ‘My answer is: I don’t know, and I don’t care. You’re right— you were right— I don’t think we have the time, or the right, to regret anything. I don’t have the time to regret what I would or wouldn’t have done in that life, when I still have this one. Regret is for the deathbed, and I sprang right out of mine, so who am I to regret anything, really?

‘And—’ —he remembers Kei’s own words, months ago, yet another lifetime ago— ‘—and if you won’t have me now, I won’t regret it. I won’t regret any of it. I promise— that’s— that’s what you meant, didn’t you? That it didn’t matter even if you weren’t around to see it, as long as I’d understood? As long as I’d listened to you?’ _You be the sound, I’ll be the listening._

‘I’m listening,’ he says, and in one deliberate movement he’s off the couch, kneeling right next to Kei, close enough to hear that his inhales are knocking against every bone in his body right now. ‘This is it, Kei, the indie awakening. Real time. I want to be with you so much that even if you won’t have me, I’ve already lived out a lifetime in that wanting.’ _I hope we won’t wait for life to turn beautiful, Kuroo-san._ ‘I could die happy right now. I’ve lived this half-hour, only half an hour of being _here_ , and it was everything.’ 

Then— Kei takes a great shuddering breath, then another, lips trembling. 

‘I mean,’ he says, cheating Tetsurou of the listening of those breaths, ‘I do think it would be the slightest bit counterproductive to die right now.’ 

Tetsurou blinks, then dissolves into laughter. His lungs are still burning a little, breaths still uneven from all the talking he just did, but it feels good to laugh. It feels good to remember how small they really are in the grand scheme of things, small enough that the smallest things can be larger than life. Like Kei’s barely-there smile turning into something wider, then blooming open to let out the birdsong that is his own laugh. Like Tetsurou, holding out both his hands for Kei to take, and curling his fingers so tight that he might end up bruising that fair skin he loves so dearly for only having touched it twice. 

‘All the same,’ he says. ‘It felt really cool and enlightened to say that I don’t care if you won’t have me, but all the same— Kei, tell me you’ll have me. If you turn me away now—’

Kei shifts and lets go of his hands; the next moment, Tetsurou’s head is pressed against his chest, the cotton of his shirt soft, his bare skin warm silk. Tetsurou closes his eyes as he feels Kei’s arms go strong and complete around him, and sinks into his grip. 

‘Do you hear it?’ Kei whispers. The last walk they will take in this life, until the next one starts up a moment later. Tetsurou takes a breath, and concentrates. _Do you hear it?_

Tetsurou listens. Does he hear it? The steady, sure, stunning beat of Kei’s heart? Does he hear it? Birdsong. Does he hear it? Bells. Kei. Life. 

He hears it. Whatever it is, he hears it. It startles a sound out of him that he’s never made before, and if Kei notices the wetness on his chest close to where Tetsurou presses his grateful lips, he says nothing about it. He says nothing even when Tetsurou leans back to pull him into his lap, when Tetsurou can’t even look up at him properly. 

‘If I was stupider than this,’ Tetsurou says, ‘I’d rip up my DNR. But I won’t, because I don’t need to. I know I’ll come clawing my way back to you either way, darling, I am completely at your grace.

‘Professor Tsukishima Kei,’ he says, then, smile wide and painful and alive on his lips. ‘Love of both my lives. Will you give being my next of kin a go?’ 

Kei stares down at him, half disbelief, half roaring love. Then he makes a raw sound scraped up from the insides of his ribcage, and looks up at the ceiling as if asking for help. 

‘You are fucking _impossible,_ ’ he says, and then he’s blazing forward to gather Tetsurou up, and kissing him.

✶

Later, Tetsurou sits up in bed, having suddenly remembered something. Kei raises himself up on his elbows and frowns, reaches for his glasses. In the four o’clock sunset, he is completely pink and gold, and Tetsurou needs to kiss every inch of him but he needs something else done first.

‘Can I ask you to do something really, really, really weird?’ he says. 

‘Always.’ 

‘No, but this is _really_ weird. We’re entering ridiculous territory here.’ 

‘We entered ridiculous territory when you told me you were basically a zombie, so out with it, already.’ 

Tetsurou barks out a laugh at that; Kei smiles, too, unworried about his words and so easy with his love. 

‘Fine,’ Tetsurou says. ‘Can you reach out, above my head, and pretend you’re unscrewing a light bulb?’ 

To his credit, Kei doesn’t even so much as raise an eyebrow at the request. Instead he sits up, too, and pulls Tetsurou gently forward by the shoulders to get good aim. Then he reaches out with his right hand and twists it once, twice, thrice. 

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I have it in my hand now.’ 

‘Okay,’ Tetsurou says. ‘Now can you smash it against the wall?’ 

Kei looks at him a beat longer than usual, then turns away. Flings the invisible weight in his hand at the wall with all his might, and brushes his hands off. 

‘Done?’ he asks.

‘Done, thank you,’ Tetsurou answers. ‘This stays between you, me, and God, okay?’ 

‘Don’t you worry,’ Kei says, quiet and content. ‘I’ll keep every secret between you and God safe.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ the call of the grey bunting.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jGo0EzbktI)


	17. dreambirds

Koushi draws back and smiles at Daichi, whose eyes are still closed, lashes dark against his golden skin. When the weather gets too cold to bear, he is a walking reminder of the miracle of summer; when it’s summer, he is warmth itself. Koushi loves him in every season, but everything comes easier when the windows and doors of the world are thrown open to let the breeze in, smiles and hearts melting under the heat of the sun.

‘Come on,’ he whispers, and Daichi opens his eyes. ‘Let’s go back inside before Bokuto breaks something else.’

The book of the year is open at its halfway point, twin pages pointing up at the sky, sunlight streaming through the cracks in the spine. Still, the temperatures are merciful, and the house has so many windows it’s less wood and more glass. They’re all open now, brightness flooding every corner of every room, tinged green through the trees that have still stubbornly kept their leaves.

Inside, Bokuto is making a valiant effort not to break anything else, having decided to accomplish this by letting Tanaka and Noya handle all the heavy lifting while he meticulously arranges the spoons in the cutlery drawer. Koushi heaves a sigh but decides to let him continue; he can always rearrange them later. Instead, he sends a grateful nod to Akaashi, who’s the only one doing any useful work by unwrapping the glassware and checking it all for any cracks that might have found their way in somehow.

Satisfied that the kitchen is in safe hands, Koushi lets Daichi take care of the bedroom, and makes his way over instead to what will eventually be the living room, but is currently a mess of mismatched chairs, stools, and one couch the plastic wrap of which has only been half-pulled off. On the bare half, Kuroo is taking up expensive real estate, sprawled over Tsukishima’s lap with his boots— _boots,_ in the middle of June— propped up on the plastic-covered armrest on the other end. His lazy position is deceptive; he’s in the middle of a thunderous argument with Yaku on the phone, of which Koushi can only catch half the issue. Something about cayenne pepper and safety regulations, which does sound very much like a problem Yaku would create.

Tsukishima, unbothered, has a book open in his free hand, which he lowers the moment his name is called out for approximately the seventeenth time this afternoon.

‘Tsukishima! Tall person needed!’

Kuroo lowers his phone and glares in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Get your own tall person, damn it, Sawamura! Give Nishinoya some stilts!’

‘Kuroo, I will end your contract renewal with existence, so help me God. Now send your man.’

Before further argument can be produced, Tsukishima’s already laughing and shoving Kuroo off, rolling his sleeves up on the way to the bedroom. Kuroo, flat on the couch now, blinks forlornly up at the ceiling before remembering he was fighting Yaku, and resumes his call.

Koushi settles down on a stray armchair and tips his head back, blows out a breath. And half of them aren’t even here yet.

✶

Given by how Kageyama has to keep Hinata awake through all of dinner, he’s the only one of the two who’s recovered from the jet lag. Koushi watches, half-amused, half-worried, as Hinata chews his greens listlessly, opening his mouth every once in a while for Kageyama to feed him meat. On his other side, Asahi seems to be having an existential crisis over what was probably him eating Bokuto’s over-spiced tofu by accident, going by Bokuto’s cackling.

‘How _was_ Paris?’ Daichi asks. ‘Not as hot as here, I imagine?’

’Not too hot, no,’ Kageyama replies. ‘It was winter the last time I went, so this was much better. I think this guy’s going through withdrawal, though.’ He points to Hinata, who glares at him balefully. ‘He found some buskers in Oberkampf and wanted to sing with them all summer. Almost skipped my concert just to go drinking with them.’

The table explodes into laughter; Kuroo chokes on his beer. Tsukishima rolls his eyes and rubs his back.

Koushi actually remembers the last time Kageyama was in Paris— how could he forget? It’s been two and a half years but Koushi will never forget anything about that day, about how perfect it was; the slightly laggy image of Kageyama sitting in his fancy French hotel room completely stunned at the idea of his senpais getting married is very much a part of it. He smiles at the memory, then smiles more as Hinata finally wakes up to make a semblance of a defence.

‘That is _not_ true,’ he says. ‘Besides, Tobio’s the one who left me to my own devices. It’s serendipity that I found those buskers! Serendipity!’

Koushi drowns out the merry bickering of the table to focus on his food. It’s a warm night, and against everyone’s collective better judgement, he knows they’re all going to go flood the nameless bar again, making poor Inuoka pour out a dozen oddly specific drinks every two hours. Koushi will settle into the couch upstairs with the other juniors, then fail to get them to dance with him when the playlist changes to the after-eleven one. Kageyama and Hinata will get into a fight about who can handle spiced rum better, and Tsukishima and Yamaguchi will egg them on just by dint of not stopping them. Then the others, punch-drunk and utterly disrespectful of their early thirties, will come upstairs and get Koushi to dance with them.

It is a warm night; they are his favourite people. All around Koushi there is a great nearness, a great nearness.

✶

Then, just as they’re all getting ready to leave for the bar and celebrate their participation in moving Daichi and Koushi into the new house, Tsukishima pulls out his phone, makes a little sound, and looks up to find Kuroo. Koushi tenses, preparing for trouble, however minor.

‘Tetsurou,’ Tsukishima says. ‘Mind giving me the keys? Tobio’ll drive us over.’

Kageyama perks up at the sound of his name, and looks over curiously, too. Beside him, Hinata, newly filled with energy after having shown them all videos of his Parisian busking adventures, heads for the door after a kiss to Kageyama’s cheek.

Kuroo shrugs and throws the keys to Tsukishima. ‘Something up?’

Tsukishima looks at both Kuroo and Kageyama for a beat, and then holds his phone up.

‘The review is in,’ he says, and while it doesn’t make sense to Koushi, it must to the other two, because Kuroo _ah_ ’s and nods knowingly, while Kageyama has the strangest look on his face, one that Koushi has as much trouble placing as he does the look on Tsukishima’s.

Then, all at once, he realises, and laughs at himself for missing something so loud and clear: both of them are smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _dreambirds._ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/14eotumM24MhIgzidgN3Jx?si=8tJV4ouwQO2WjNWMSkcV_w)


	18. epilogue

15 June, 2022

_“Cosmogony” might be Kageyama’s shortest album to date, just one track away from being an EP, but it is that track— the very last one, aptly titled “Sun, World, Universe” and lasting an ethereal fourteen minutes and fifty-three seconds, that makes the entire sequence of pieces before it glow like stars connected to form a single, stunning constellation._

_I consider myself the luckiest person on earth, then, because I got to experience “Sun, World, Universe” live twice: once at the concert, of course, and once a day before, when my Île-de-France correspondance brought me to the busy, bustling station of Saint-Lazare. There, instead of the usual groups of conservatory students having their daily jam session at the public piano, I saw none other than Kageyama Tobio himself: looking nothing like he does at his concerts apart from the set of his shoulders and, of course, the practiced-perfect way his hands moved over the keys._

✶

‘I seriously cannot read this out with a straight face,’ Kei says, then, as Tobio pulls the car out of the parking. The windows are rolled all the way down so he’ll have to speak up once they’re really on the road, but for now he can act all disgusted and disdainful in relative quiet. ‘I think Hinata would explode if he saw how she’s described him.’

Tobio snorts, shifts gears as he steers onto the main road. ‘What, did she say he’s short? Everyone brings that up. _Oh, he’s so small, how does he sing so loud._ ’

‘Not even. This is…’ Kei scrolls down, making more and more dramatic horrified sounds until he finally sighs. ‘Three entire paragraphs talking about how the _real_ cosmogony is the way you two performed together at that stupid station and how she can’t wait because there simply _must_ be an extended EP with Hinata’s vocal track to _Sun, World, Universe_. Also, apparently you look better in summer clothes than suits.’

‘You just made that up, fuck off,’ Tobio laughs. ‘What else did she say?’

‘Oh, the usual. Track listing, she loved _Genesis,_ thinks _Heliograph_ is your most touching work yet, the concert was incredible but of course she loved the impromptu performance at the station better.’

‘Let me guess, more authentic, or something? How they’ll probably stop taking me for a stuck-up snob now that they’ve seen me in sandals?’

‘You were wearing _sandals?_ ’ Kei groans. ‘Wait— don’t tell me Hinata was in flipflops.’

‘Oh, he was in flipflops.’

‘I can’t take you two _anywhere_.’

‘Kei,’ Tobio says, then, just a little quieter. This far from the city the road is still calm, and he can sneak a glance to his left. Kei’s definitely trying not to smile down at his phone, which means the journalist has written something he didn’t expect her to write. ‘What does it say?’

✶

_As much as this is supposed to be a concert-cum-album review, at the end of Kageyama’s splendid performance at the Opéra, I cannot help but go back to the memory of him playing at the station, and think about my own words from nearly three years ago: something about instrument, and instruments. I think what I was trying to say back then was that every work of Kageyama’s so far weaved a tale of a singular figure trying to make sense of an ocean of music. Even “Cosmogony”, different and startlingly clear as the sound is compared to his previous œuvre, has hints of this in its progression— his own performance of it the next day had that element of solitary melancholy to it, albeit lighter, more aware of itself._

_The day before, however, with that beautiful voice overlaying Kageyama’s fingers on the keys, it felt like all sense had been made of that ocean of music. All sense had been made of its purpose. Of the sun, the world, and the universe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY!!!
> 
> [no day will be more perfect](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eG0ZIrvwMshUpcYMb34SN?si=mwP21nj3QKWecaCXKcEr1g) / [only two metaphors](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3CQtxy9kD7fBZjREvvLKZd?si=9Ti86OhgQcGMcwMTXqVnnA) / [thursday, 5:19 PM](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/40nzNZ1VafzH8QYbXlwD0q?si=Er3A7aCSQf21fBQ9-ze-og)
> 
> [hinata's music sampler](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WapEp7hkwGsdQNAMc6n5p?si=wRZZUynVRLaNpOfCszVILw) for the curious. i can translate the lyrics if you'd like, but rest assured that all of them are about kageyama.
> 
> all of kageyama's music has been based off [nils frahm's](https://open.spotify.com/artist/5gqhueRUZEa7VDnQt4HODp?si=QxaDMefQQ36GEV3HVN0WrQ) œuvre.
> 
> any and all kagehina emotions can be redirected to [zara](http://twitter.com/mitskook) who crafted the unadulterated pain that is their backstory with me.
> 
> lin, with whom i share custody of a singular brain cell, sponsored both epiphany triggers.
> 
>  **kuroo:** shot through the heart and ur to blame! :D  
>  **tsukki:** I Will Personally Make Sure You Stay Dead This Time
> 
> you can find me on [twitter.](http://twitter.com/tricksteller)


End file.
